


Do not go where I can't follow

by Lakritzwolf



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Forced Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, good old trope of Believing each other dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-03-26 00:25:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 56,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13846191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lakritzwolf/pseuds/Lakritzwolf
Summary: Nasir and Agron get separated in the final battle, each believing the other dead. Yet both somehow find a way to go on, fighting their own battles of another kind, despite no hope of ever seeing the other again before the afterlife.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is tagged rape/non-con because of forced prostitution, but I do not take pleasure in raping and torturing my characters. The issue will crop up a few times as part of the plot, but I will never delve into graphic, detailed descriptions of rape or trivialise the prostitute sex.
> 
> * * *

“I cannot flee to the mountains with the others. Despite command, my place is upon field of battle.”

“As mine is forever by your side.”

They made love that night with passion born of desperation. Neither of the two would voice it, but there would be no next time. Clinging to each other like children they did not sleep, desperate to share what little time was left to them in each other’s arms.

The next morning they got ready in silence, donning armour and weapons, with Nasir helping to lash Agron’s weapon to his hand, yet too weak to grasp a sword. Yet it did not matter. There would never be another battle.

Agron and Nasir did not speak of parting ways again; in fact they did not speak at all that morning as they had said all that mattered the night before. Agron refused to leave Spartacus’ side, and Nasir refused to leave Agron’s. So now they stood in Spartacus’ ranks side by side, ready for battle and revenge, ready for a final sacrifice of Roman blood to whatever gods that might yet care. Standing shoulder to shoulder they watched the Romans and their numbers, in the knowledge that victory would not be theirs that day. Victory would not be won upon the battlefield. Victory would only be won by those who would gain freedom, slipping from the grasp of Rome while others kept her armies off their trail.

In one final glance they shared they both lost themselves in each other, for the last time. Agron reached out and pulled Nasir into one last, desperate kiss.

And then the battle was upon them.

Thoughts of the past and regrets and all else fell from mind. Even if there would be no victory, the rebel army’s goal was to keep the legions from pursuit of the others, so they had to fight for as long as they were able. Killing as many as they could, before succumbing to superior numbers.

Spartacus’ plans bore rich fruit, sent Romans into confusion and greatly thinned their numbers. Gannicus leading the cavalry tore a gaping wound into the back of Crassus’ legions. For a moment, victory seemed almost within reach after all.

So far Agron and Nasir had fought side by side, watching out for each other’s flanks and backs. Felling enemies and driving forward with the others, like a spear into the side of the enemy.

Yet the tides of battle turned against them.

Castus fell, right in front of their eyes, with neither of them being able to prevent it. Yet they had only a moment of grief and fury before the battlefield consumed them again, and they spilled yet more blood for revenge.

But the gods did no longer care. One by one they all fell, struck down by roman spear and sword, or set ablaze by fireballs raining from the skies.

Having been forced to helplessly watch Saxa fall, Nasir tried to push forward, but was swept away by another surge of Romans coming from the western flank. He could offer neither her nor Gannicus any help or comfort, and was pressed with his own survival, because he did not want to succumb yet. There was still strength in him, and there were many more Romans to send on their way to the afterlife before him.

His spear found enemies’ chests and necks, spilling blood and guts and breaking bones. Then he had broken free of the throng, emerged on the other side, and had a few moments of catching his breath. It was then that he realised Agron was no longer at his side.

This was not supposed to happen. They had planned to die side by side.

“AGRON!” Nasir looked desperately around, but there was no trace of him. “AGRON!”

Driven by both fury and fear he attacked even more viciously than before, trying to fight his way back closer to the catapults where Agron had last been at his side. Screaming in this madness was of no use, no noise carried over the clashing of swords and shields, and the screams and yells of countless men and horses.

The rebel soldier next to him fell, impaled from behind, and Nasir looked up to see the riders coming for them, Roman soldiers this time, not one of their own numbers. Yet they pressed forward in ruthless force, trampling down even their own men to get at the rebels.

And yet, their goal was not the small group of rebels that still fought at Nasir’s side. They galloped past them, charging uphill, a clear destination in mind somewhere behind and above the battlegrounds. A second or two of breathing gained, Nasir looked up and into the direction they had taken. Up towards the hill of command.

Nasir did not see and could not hear yet more riders coming and first noticed them as they were passing him too close. He was knocked off his feet and thrown backwards, landed heavily on his back and had the wind knocked out of him. Iron-shod hooves stomped the ground next to him, and it was all he could do to close his eyes. It wouldn’t be a quick death, trampled by horses or men. But maybe he was lucky and one of those beasts just stepped on his head.

Something hit him right in the midriff and he was thrown into the air, yet he did feel no more of the impact than a second of searing pain. And then, nothing at all.

* * *

Realising that Nasir had suddenly been torn from his side was the worst fear fulfilled that Agron could ever have imagined. He spun around, trying to find a trace of the Syrian, but it was impossible in this maelstrom of death and blood and madness. He was smaller than most men and would just vanish in the sea of fighting men and dead bodies.

“NASIR!”

Of course he got no answer. He couldn’t even quite remember when the last time was he had known Nasir for sure by his side. Somewhere near the catapults where Saxa had died, if he remembered correctly.

Yet the tides of battles had swept him far away, and uphill, almost beyond enemy lines. He spun around to charge back downhill, into the heart of the battle, even though he knew with ice-cold certainty he would never find Nasir again down there. But falling, down there in the battle somewhere close to where he had lost him, was now the closest he could ever get again to dying by his side.

Tears burned hot in his eyes, and he charged again, roaring at the top of his lungs.

And then he heard someone scream his name, yet it was not Nasir’s voice.

“AGRON!”

He spun around, to see a rider galloping towards him, leading a riderless horse.

“Agron!” He knew the man, yet the name had slipped Agron’s mind. “Spartacus! On the hill!”

“Have you seen Nasir?” Agron screamed.

“No!” The rider screamed back. “We have to get to Spartacus!”

Agron nodded and mounted as quickly as he could with his damaged hands and the shield lashed to his right arm. Spartacus obviously needed his help now, and on horseback he could press into battle again later for a slim chance of finding his beloved after all.

But it was too late.

They found Spartacus mortally wounded, and behind them, the battle was lost. Agron stared down into the valley where the legions slowly closed in around the rebel army.

Everything was lost.

He could hear Nasir’s voice in his head as clearly as if he had stood beside him.

_Aid Spartacus. See him safe._

His comrade clapped Agron’s shoulder. “He is gone,” he said gently. “There is nothing you can do for him anymore.”

_See to Spartacus._

Agron swallowed and gritted his teeth, and then he turned his back to the battlefield. As he helped his comrades with getting Spartacus to safety he swore to himself to return to find his death beside his beloved, but first he did what he knew Nasir would have wanted him to do. Spartacus was brought to safety, but it was obvious that he couldn’t be saved.

The skies wept and mourned his passing as the strongest and bravest heart Agron had ever known ceased beating. The grip around Agron’s fingers weakened and slipped, and he slowly rested the limp, lifeless hand on Spartacus’ chest.

“One day, Rome shall fade and crumble.” Agron’s voice was trembling, despite every attempt at keeping it steady. “Yet you shall always be remembered in the hearts of all who yearn for freedom.”

It brought no comfort, looking at Spartacus’ face. Agron reached out and closed his unseeing eyes, and prayed his wife would finally embrace him again and whisper his true name, a thing he had so longed for. He closed his own eyes and shook his head, and then he laboured to his feet again.

“We cannot leave him here to rot, or for the Romans to desecrate his body.”

The ground was too hard to bury him, so they gathered stones to build a cairn. It was a meagre grave for a man so great and revered by so many, but it was all they could do for him. As a last gesture of respect, Agron placed his shield on top of the cairn as grave marker.

They had gained the mountain pass, but they were still not safe. A few had remained to wait, but most had pressed on, already long out of sight of the Roman army. The fighters and soldiers had been the Romans’ main concern, not the fleeing women, children and old ones who were now on their way to true freedom. And that had been the only goal of the battle.

Agron looked back, and at the carnage down in the valley.

The jaws of Pompey’s and Crassus’ legions around the remainders of the rebel army had snapped shut, and Agron could see there was nothing left. A few stragglers here and there, hunted down by mounted soldiers. Those who had not fallen would be captured and crucified, and yet Agron yearned to be back onto what remained of the battlefield. He could not grasp a sword, but he would be able to find his end, to join his beloved in death.

He put a last, small stone onto the cairn at his side as he let his eyes roam across the blood-soaked ground of the valley. He would seek his death down there, and then find Nasir in the afterlife.

Laeta and Sibyl were the last, among a handful of others, still lingering at the grave, unwilling to let go. Agron looked at them, at the last people to yet gain freedom out of the reach of the republic, and then back at the battlefield.

“Go,” he said, his voice rough. “They are not looking for you yet.”

“And you?” Laeta asked. “Would you not live?”

Agron swallowed and shook his head.

There was nothing to his life now. He was crippled, his hands never be able to grasp either tool or weapon again. What worth did his life have absent blood and battle? What meaning did it hold without Nasir at his side?

“You will not find death on the battlefield if you go back there now,” Laeta said, her voice slightly trembling. “Crassus will take as many prisoners as he can, to see them to the cross. Alone and unarmed you are easily overcome.”

Agron gritted his teeth, his heart racing, then turned around to face her. “And if Nasir is one of those? What if-”

“He would have pressed on until the bitter end,” Laeta interrupted him gently, her voice more unsteady with every word. “But even if he was, what comfort would he find in seeing you at the cross as well?” She took a step towards him. “Would he not have you live? Just as you would have him live?”

Agron swallowed hard, his throat dry, and a cold feeling of dread churning in his stomach. He was about to turn away to look back at the battlefield again.

But then he noticed the children.

A boy of maybe seven or eight years, a little girl no older than five. They had threadbare blankets tied around their shoulders with a hasty knot, and the boy was holding a small bundle. They stood there side by side, lost, helpless, confused, and afraid. And alone. Tears had washed white stripes into the grime on their faces.

Agron exhaled softly before taking a few steps towards the children.

“Mama said she would come and find us after the battle.” The boy looked up at him, bleak, hopeless despair in his eyes.

Agron swallowed and looked over his shoulder back into the valley before looking at the children again.

“Will Mama come back?” The little girl asked.

Agron had thought he did not have enough of his heart left, but he did, and it broke again. He slowly went down into a crouch before the girl.

“No,” he said softly. “She will not come back.”

More tears welled from the little girl’s eyes. “But she promised...”

“The choice was removed from her hands.” Agron shook his head. The poor child’s tears made his own eyes burn.

Laeta, Sibyl and the young mother with the babe whose birth Agron had been unwilling witness to were following the others, and here the two children stood, utterly and completely alone in this world.

And there it was again, the familiar, beloved voice in his head, so clear and so firm.

_You cannot leave them._

The little girl was crying now, in helpless, high-pitched sobs, while the boy was just staring ahead, his empty eyes overflowing with tears.

Agron got up again and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “What is your name?”

The boy looked up at him. “Gaius.” He swallowed. “Damiro.”

“Damiro?” Agron could almost feel a smile. “Was your mother born north of the mountains?”

“She said we are going home,” the boy replied in a tiny voice.

Home, north of the Alps. And the boy’s name, given by his mother and not the Romans, was a name from Agron’s own people.

“And your sister?”

“Randi. Not Salvia.”

Agron nodded and closed his eyes.

_You cannot leave them, Agron._

He opened his eyes again.

No. He couldn’t.

There was no meaning to his life, a life that had only ever known war and blood and battle, but he had known that this was to be the last battle in his life. He had been unable to imagine that there was anything beyond, anything else in this world that could give him purpose again, with Nasir lost to him.

He crouched down again and looked at the crying little girl.

“I am Agron,” he said and brushed a few hairs from her face. “Do not be scared anymore.”

It wasn’t easy with his injured shoulder and damaged hands, but he slung his left arm around her and picked her up. The girl immediately flung her arms around Agron’s neck and buried her face into his shoulder, still crying but holding on to him with all her strength.

Then Agron held his other hand out to the boy.

Damiro looked at the hand, up at Agron’s face, and back at the hand again. He took it, hesitantly and slowly, and Agron closed his fingers around the boy’s as best as he could.

They followed the others, and Agron did not look back again.

But in his mind he could see Nasir’s face, and he was smiling at him.


	2. Chapter 2

Nasir awoke with a groan, and into a world of pain. Every part of his body throbbed with a dull ache, and he couldn’t even say where one pain ended and the other began. As his mind cleared somewhat with a few breaths he realised that this meant he wasn’t in the afterlife just yet, but couldn’t say if that was good or bad. He couldn’t even open his eyes. And neither could he move.

Another few moments made him realise that he couldn’t move because he was tied down somehow, pressed against a hard surface at his back, and he was hardly able to breathe.

Had he been crucified?

He eventually managed to crack his eyes open; they had been crusted with blood and his eyelids almost glued together. Crumbs fell into his eyes and he had a hard time blinking them away.

He was not crucified; the weight that pressed him down and almost choked him was a dead Roman soldier lying on top of him. The eerie silence around him told him the battle was over, and here he was, still alive against all odds.

It cost him all strength he had left to push the dead Roman aside and sit up. He was surrounded by fallen bodies, friend and foe alike, and he found himself at the very northern edge of the battlefield. Behind him was the way to the mountains and the pass the others would hopefully have reached by now, and hopefully undiscovered by the legions.

Below him across the valley he saw soldiers gather, herding prisoners together like cattle. They would all end on the cross, and a heavy pain of loss settled in Nasir’s chest. There might be friends there. One of them might even be Agron, although he doubted it. Agron would rather have gutted himself on his own blade than risking crucifixion again.

A death on the battlefield he had been prepared for. Being impaled or sliced open or having his skull caved in had held no horror, but being nailed to a cross and wasting away for the gods knew how long in absolute agony was not something he could face, even if it would reunite him with Agron eventually.

Agron.

The name didn’t even cause tears at this moment, only a hollow, aching pain as if a piece of his soul had been torn out of him, like a limb that had been torn off the body. He was not there anymore. He was gone. Agron was gone, and Nasir was still alive. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He sank to the ground again and closed his eyes.

_I ask only that you live._

If Agron could see him from the afterlife, he would have smiled. Would have been nothing but relieved that Nasir had survived, and would have urged him on to find safety. He would have told him to run, find the others, guide them and help them, and that he would wait for him on the shores of the afterlife.

Nasir rolled onto his stomach and let his head fall onto the hard, blood-stained earth. He didn’t want to be alive, not when Agron was somewhere down there, his body torn apart by Roman swords, being flung into a mass grave or burned like so much garbage. He didn’t want to be alive without Agron being here to share it with him.

_I ask only that you live._

“And how am I supposed to live without you?” He asked, his voice breaking. “There is no one left, how am I supposed to go on like this, you stupid German shit?”

And yet, there was a nagging little voice at the back of his head telling him that it had been Agron’s last wish. He knew without a trace of doubt that Agron’s last thought would have been the hope that Nasir could make it out alive and reach safety with the others.

He had wanted Nasir to live, but Nasir didn’t want to live without Agron at his side.

_I ask only that you live._

He didn’t even know how to achieve that now. Everyone was dead, and the only men alive in the valley were roman soldiers. There was no way he could reach the northern pass without being noticed, even with dusk almost upon them.

He had no idea where he got the strength from, but he eventually managed to sit up again. And yet, there was only a cold numbness in his body, and he was unable to move any further. What was the point anyway? There was no escape. The moment he got up and took a step he would be discovered, bound and dragged away to end on the cross.

And as brave a warrior as he knew himself to be, he was not sure he was able to face that end. Agron had not talked much about the torture he had been put through, but even from the little Nasir had been able to glean he knew that Agron, brave, proud Agron who wasn’t afraid of anything, was absolutely terrified of having to go through that again.

Empty, hollow, aching, and tired to the bones Nasir stared straight ahead and wondered why he still cared. Even the agony of crucifixion would eventually end.

_I ask only that you live._

Agron would weep and tremble in the afterlife if he knew that Nasir was about to face his death on the cross.

His gaze fell onto the dead soldier lying next to him, his milky eyes staring unseeing up at the sky, mouth agape in the shock that had come with his death. He would never see his friends and family again either. Had he been married? Did he have children that had been told stories of war and glory, only for their father never to return? Had he been a cruel miser beating his wife and slaves?

And what did it matter? Neither of them would leave this battlefield alive.

The idea was there in an instant, a flash of madness, but Agron’s voice in his head spurred him on. If there was the slimmest sliver of hope for escaping the cross, it was this.

It wasn’t an easy task to divest the soldier of his armour and attire, as rigor mortis had already set in, but eventually Nasir had managed to don the armour himself. And as he put the helmet on, he looked at the almost naked man again.

“I hope you find peace in the afterlife, despite everything,” he whispered. Then he laboured onto his feet and stumbled towards the edge of the battlefield, past piles and lines of corpses. He didn’t look at their faces.

Pushed beyond exhaustion and yet somehow still moving he stumbled onward on failing legs in waning daylight, up and north, towards the pass and the others who had hopefully made their final escape. Maybe there was a chance he could catch up with them. Live, as Agron had wanted him to. Maybe there was no joy to wrest from his remaining days, but he owed Agron at least the attempt.

_I ask only that you live._

He would try. It was all he could do.

* * *

Agron had carried the little girl for as long as he had been able, but eventually he had to put her down again, and he remained in a crouch for another moment.

“Can you walk for a while?” He asked the girl. “My shoulder is injured and it hurts.”

Randi clutched a fold of her blanket-cloak between her fingers, but nodded after a moment. When Agron got up again both children reached urgently for his hands, and Agron didn’t deny them this tiny bit of reassurance and safety the touch gave them. Agron, a stranger whom they only knew the name of, was now the only one they had left in this world.

Agron didn’t know the next thing about children and how you cared for them, but at least the two were old enough to eat and take care of their own bodily functions by themselves. But every time he looked at Damiro, as fair as he was, he saw a trace of Duro in the boy.

No, he wasn’t by far the best father figure in this world, but he was the only thing they had, and they would make do, somehow.

They had by now caught up with the last of the fleeing rebels, and Laeta and Sibyl had watched the children with mournful eyes as well. But he felt their eyes on him as well and saw their approval, and their pride in him for him having abandoned death and reunion with his beloved in favour of two helpless children. Yet he took no pride in it. He simply couldn’t have done otherwise.

This time of the year dusk came fast, and at this altitude the night was cold. The rebels made hasty camp, as much as they were able, but dared no fires in fear of discovery.

Agron had found scant shelter behind a cluster of rocks, nothing more to keep him and the children out of the wind. He settled with his back against the hard, cracked stone, and helped wrap the children tighter into their blankets. They both immediately crawled closer to him, pressing their fragile, scrawny bodies against Agron’s in desperate search for warmth and comfort.

Agron took a deep breath, then he settled both children onto his lap, so they were resting against his chest now. He closed both arms around them and pulled them close, and they melted into his embrace, clinging on to bits and straps of his armour as if afraid he would push them away again. He closed his arms tighter, trying to share his warmth with them, even though he knew it would not be enough.

The children in his arms were quickly dragged to sleep by their utter exhaustion, but Agron was denied sleep, even if it would have been much needed. He stared up into the sky, into the stars, and ever so often his vision blurred and he had to blink his tears away.

His mind conjured countless images of his beloved.

He saw Nasir, brave and swift on the battlefield, his moves a graceful and deadly dance with his spear.

Nasir, naked and beautiful on a bed, his eyes filled with desire and love.

Nasir, soft and vulnerable in his embrace after a nightmare of terrors long past had plagued his sleep.

Nasir, his eyes reddening with the oath he had made, in the knowledge that a life together would be forever denied to them.

The memory of a gentle hand running through his hair in a tender gesture of love was so vivid he could feel it, and he could not stop himself from looking up to see if he was not standing next to him.

He was not, of course.

Agron’s throat constricted and the lump in his throat had the size of a brick. It hurt to swallow past it, but he forced his breathing to still as he did not want to wake the children from their much needed sleep and what little escape it brought them from their cruel fate.

It did not matter if his eyes were open or closed, he did not see the craggy rocks and meagre, low vegetation around him.

_You press fortune, staring so at the slayer of Theokeles._

_His victory but proving even giants fall._

And hadn’t he been right? Spartacus had fallen after all. They had made Rome tremble and fear, but in the end, had succumbed and lost. Several hundred maybe were left now that had gained freedom, but many more had been lost. So many who had died for them to gain this chance.

Spartacus. Donar. Saxa. Nemetes. Lugo. Crixus. Naevia. Gannicus. Oenomaeus. Every name came with a face, memories that would haunt his dreams and waking hours for the rest of his life. Friends and brothers he had been unable to save.

Duro.

Duro laughing into his face, having landed a painful and most embarrassing blow during their training. And his eyes breaking as he drew his last breath in Agron’s arms.

Nasir.

Tears spilled from his eyes again.

_A sword to the chest would be a blow less felt._

Agron opened his eyes again and stared back at the stars. He silently begged Crixus for forgiveness for having put him through this, even if it had been but a day.

_My heart will never beat for another. Yet it would cease within my chest if I were to drag you to your doom._

More tears flowed, and Agron did not try to stop them. There was no one there who could see him in his shame. He was able to keep the hitch out of his breathing to not wake the children, and he leaned his head back against the rock that was their only shelter.


	3. Chapter 3

Even clad like a roman soldier Nasir had moved with utmost caution towards the northern edges of the battlefield. He wasn’t alone; there were other Romans who were looting corpses or trying to get wounded comrades to safety, and Nasir tried to look as if he had every right to be there when in truth, he had rarely in his life been so afraid.

It was getting darker, and the wind picked up, and it also started to rain, as if even the elements were doing their best to make life miserable that day. The only good thing was with turning the earth into mud the rain would hide the traces of the refugees.

Hidden by falling darkness and rain Nasir headed north and managed the ascent, agonizingly slow in his exhaustion. He kept stumbling over rocks in the murky twilight and lost his footing more than once, and again and again he wondered if this was really worth it.

He eventually reached a rocky outcrop with a small expanse of flat ground, and he sank down onto his knees and leaned against a boulder. He knew he should keep moving as soldiers might be on their way up here even now, but he simply couldn’t move anymore.

The rain ceased without completely stopping, but the wind now drove the clouds around like a wolf would panicked sheep, and the moon occasionally peeked out through gaps in the ragged clouds. It was almost full, so the light it cast actually illuminated the ground when the light wasn’t veiled by clouds.

Having rested a while, Nasir forced himself onto his feet and turned around, to discover that what he had believed to be another large boulder was not a boulder at all. It was man-made, a pile of carefully stacked rocks, yet too small to hold meaning.

Nasir’s blood ran cold when he realised that it was just about large enough to hold a body. He was looking at a grave. A new one, as there was no moss or grass anywhere close to it, as far as he could see in this light anyway.

He slowly stepped closer, and the closer he got the surer he was that it was indeed a grave he was looking at. Having reached it he stepped around, looking back at the valley and then ahead again towards the pass. Whoever was resting here under those rocks had almost, almost made it. Nasir lowered his eyes and shook his head.

And then his eyes fell on the gleam of metal, just a flash as the clouds unveiled the moon again. His legs grew weak as he stepped around the grave, and they gave way when he realised what he was looking at.

He reached out with trembling fingers to touch the shield bearing a red serpent.

Knowledge that there was no hope for a reunion in this life had burned in his chest until now. Now, as he laid eyes upon the grave and the marker, and what it held, the knowledge turned into an all-consuming fire of pain. He knew beyond doubt now that he would not see his beloved in this life again. Not even the last sliver of hope was left to him now.

His head fell forward with a hoarse, rasping sob, and he fell against the cairn, digging his fingers into the cracks between the stones as if they could embrace his beloved one last time. For one wild, mad moment he thought about removing a few of the stones to get a last glance at his heart, but immediately pushed the thought from mind again.

He would not desecrate his grave, and he did not want to taint what happy memories remained with the sight of his lifeless, bloodstained face. Better keep his image in his mind as it was, his smile bright and radiant, his eyes sparkling with love and life.

Holding on to the grave with both hands Nasir pressed his forehead against the rough stones while his tears vanished between them.

Nasir knew that Agron had wanted him to live, but here, now, in this moment, all strength had left him, together with the will to even try. He was so tired. He was hurting more than he had ever before in his life, both in soul and in body. He wanted to sleep. And never to wake up.

His fingers touched a small piece of rock and sent it tumbling from the top of the grave. He picked it up to look at it, caressing it with one finger of the other hand as if he somehow could touch his beloved this way.

Slowly, he lifted his head to look at the shield again, and the blade embedded into the metal. He reached out and touched it; it wasn’t as sharp as it had been when he had crafted it, but still sharp enough to bite deeply into flesh, to let him bleed out what life was left within him on the ground next to Agron’s grave. He would not join his grave, but he did not care if his bones would rot under stone or under the sun.

But even as he formed those thoughts he could suddenly hear voices, and those voices were coming from below, not from behind him where the pass vanished into the mountains.

Roman soldiers.

And at that moment, Nasir panicked. His mind fell completely from reason and he could only feel cold terror at the thought of the Romans finding the grave. They would see it as it was, a grave of someone with meaning, maybe even recognise the shield. They would desecrate the grave and make a public spectacle out of the body of one of Spartacus’ generals.

Nasir couldn’t let that happen.

So instead of turning the blade to his flesh he staggered onto his feet again, towards the Roman soldiers coming up the rise. They were bearing torches, and Nasir knew that he was dangerously close to being discovered now, but for some reason the need to hide and protect Agron’s grave was suddenly greater than his fear of the cross.

“What are you doing here?” One of the soldiers asked.

“I could say the same of you,” Nasir replied. “I thought I saw something up there, in the moonlight.” He managed to shrug. “Was just a piece of scrap.”

“Huh.” The other soldier spat out. “Miserable rebel scum.”

Nasir joined them on the way down towards the valley again. He forced himself not to look back and tried to keep his voice as neutral as he could.

“Will Crassus or Pompey set after them?”

“I doubt it,” one of the soldiers said. “They have better things to do than chasing a handful of stragglers in the mountains.”

It was the only relief Nasir could find, but it was a relief.

Once at the bottom of the valley Nasir excused himself on account of having to attend immediate physical need. He needed to get away from those Romans.

“Maybe you find a rebel corpse to piss on,” one of the Romans said, with the others joining his coarse laughter.

Nasir managed to laugh as well, but was glad that in the darkness and beneath his helm, his face was invisible to them.

They left him to his task, one that took Nasir a ridiculous amount of time, struggling with the uncomfortable, unfamiliar and extremely ungainly Roman attire and the fact he didn’t want to let go of the stone.

It was when he was done that it all sank in. He fell to the ground again, landed heavily on his knees, and doubled over in agony. Yet he couldn’t even make a sound.

Agron was dead. Not only the vague feeling of loss, of him being gone, but the bone-deep knowledge that he was dead and cold and forever resting under a pile of rocks hidden in the mountains. He wondered if he should have taken a look at his face after all, but it was too late for that. Going back there was too dangerous now, as the soldiers were already falling back into formations, albeit very loose ones, to turn away from the battlefield. And while it didn’t really make a difference if he would be crucified as rebel or deserter, he rather would not be crucified at all.

He still wondered why he cared. The agony of being nailed to a cross could not be any worse than the pain he already felt.

But what kept him from turning back was Agron’s voice. He had wanted Nasir to live. And the very last thing he would have wanted was for Nasir to end on the cross. No, Nasir did no longer care if he lived or died, but to risk being crucified felt like desecrating Agron’s memory.

_I ask only that you live._

There might yet be a way, if he could escape this battlefield and its horrors, to make his way north and find the others after all. There might be a way to honour Agron’s last wish, even if it meant so much pain for himself. But then he lifted his head and looked back over his shoulder.

“I do not know if I can,” he whispered. “I shall try. For the sake of your love, I shall try. But I do not know if I can.”

He opened his hand again to look at the small piece of rock in his palm. Then he closed his fingers around it and brought it to his lips. Tears ran down his cheeks as he kissed the stone, the last touch of his beloved he would ever feel.

Then he looked up at the valley before him and the retreating Roman army.

* * *

It had to be long past midnight, and Nasir was still kneeling where he had fallen, still clutching the stone to his chest. He knew that he should move, that if he was found now and like this he was a dead man walking, but he didn’t have the strength. And where would he go anyway? He couldn’t join the soldiers; the moment he had to take off the helmet they would recognise him for what he really was.

He looked at the stone, and shook his head with closed eyes. He had promised Agron’s soul to try, but he simply didn’t know what to do. How could he get past the legions? Neither his current disguise nor his normal attire would give him any advantage, and going naked was not an option either. Nasir was simply at a loss.

He watched Romans walk past, and one of them hailed him, asking if he was wounded.

He had to move.

“It is but a scratch,” Nasir said and forced himself onto his feet. It was too easy to fake a limp in his state, so he wasn’t questioned.

He listened to their talk about whores and celebrations with half an ear, his heart racing and his breathing shallow. Any moment one of them would look at him, and it was over.

And then the group parted ways; two headed on and the other three headed towards the followers’ encampment, still talking about whores and wine.

Nasir fell back, still faking a limp, and as the three soldiers just walked on and paid him no mind, he slowly slunk away into the shadows.

Maybe there was yet a way to get out of here, and to reach a place where he could lie down, heal, and then make an attempt of reaching the pass again. But he wasn’t sure if he could. He could not think of anything else, though. He took a few deep, shaky breaths, and as silently as he could, got rid of the roman armour again. He was shivering; what he was about to do made him sick to the stomach and put a bone-deep horror into his chest. And yet, this was his only chance.

And so, with a heavy heart, he took off his necklace, and all the other small trinkets adorning his body, most of them gifts from Agron. It broke his heart, but there was no other way. He undressed down to his trousers and even took off his shoes, and lastly, also undid his hair.

He hid all those things behind a few rocks, and put a few more stones on top of them before scattering a few handfuls of earth over those. Not because he would see them back at one point because he wouldn’t, but because he could not risk their discovery.

He slowly straightened up again and swallowed. His hand wandered to his neck of its own accord to touch the charms for good luck, but found only skin. He had to bite back his tears at that sensation.

The only thing he was still holding now was the little stone, and he had to keep that somewhere safe. A small pouch tied to the string holding his trousers into place was the only thing he had, and after a few more deep breaths to steady himself, he slowly stepped out of the darkness and slipped between the tents.

And then he realised it: he was no longer Nasir. Not completely at least, as Nasir was more than just an outfit and weapons. He was not truly Tiberius again either, but all those skills he had learned when he had still been a body slave were the only things that could save him now. So Nasir rolled his shoulders, and reached out into his memories to see if he could summon a shadow of his old self to see him through this.

“You!”

Nasir almost jumped out of his skin.

“Come here!”

After another shaky breath Nasir nodded and walked towards the three men, his heart hammering in his chest. Yet these were not the same men whom he had accompanied here, and his heartbeat calmed a little, but not much. He gave in to no illusion that he would get through this untouched.

“You...” One of the men walked around him, giving him an appraising look.

Nasir cried to Tiberius for help.

“You do not look like a common whore,” the man said.

Using all force of will, Nasir kept his face calm and tilted his head. “And the meaning of your words?”

“The meaning is that I shall enjoy fucking you,” the man replied. “You could be one of those fucking rebel shits.”

Nasir had no idea what to reply to that. He had no idea how to react. He wanted to scream and run, back to Agron’s grave, and throw himself with his throat onto the blade. His hands curled into fists, as if his body wanted to fight back, but Nasir could do neither. He was petrified.

But then, the moment the soldier touched his bare shoulder, a strange calm fell over Nasir like a cloak. He knew what was going to happen, but suddenly, he felt the burden of flight or fight fade and vanish. He surrendered to his fate, knowing that he had endured and survived it hundreds of times, and that he would endure and survive this as well.

Tiberius had found him and had come to his aid.

* * *

They had called him rebel scum, filthy slave, and other names Nasir couldn’t remember through his haze of pain. He had been beaten and flung about and kicked, and several strands of his hair had been torn out as well. They had fucked his mouth and his ass until he had been about to pass out. And they hadn’t even left a single coin.

He finally managed to uncurl and sit up, and could feel a split eyebrow beginning to swell. With great effort he found his trousers and somehow, managed to get them on again. At least they hadn’t knocked out any of his teeth.

At this point Nasir had only one thought: he couldn’t stand this again. He needed to get out of sight somewhere. He managed to get onto his feet and staggered a few steps forward, every step sending a jolt of pain up his spine. He felt sick, but was too weak to puke.

He passed a dark and empty tent, the flap hanging loose, and without thinking he stumbled inside. It was completely empty, no blankets, chests or anything else, but Nasir gladly sank onto the hard ground and closed his eyes.

“Jupiter’s cock!”

Nasir curled up, but it was a woman’s voice, and it held no anger.

“What have they done to you?”

Someone knelt down next to him, and Nasir could feel a cautious touch on the back of his head. He hesitated for a moment, but then he uncurled and carefully, rolled onto his back. The woman looking at him was definitely a whore, but long past her prime. She was stout, and the make-up in her face did nothing to conceal her age.

“You poor boy,” she said. “I hope they paid you well.”

“No,” Nasir replied. “They left me without a single coin.”

“Fucking cunts.” She shook her head. “I shall have a word with the commanders.”

Nasir swallowed another gust of panic. “I am just a whore. What would they care?”

“They should,” the whore replied. “I cannot have men running around in my camp fucking without paying, especially not when they treat the whores like this.”

“It will not make a difference.”

“For you, no,” she replied and held out a hand. “But for others. No need for any of my girls to suffer such fate if it can be avoided.”

“True.” Nasir took the hand and let her pull him up.

“Come,” she said. “What name do you go by, my boy?”

“Tiberius.” The name felt strange on his tongue.

“Tiberius.” She nodded. “I am Tullia, and most of the women here work for me.”

Nasir’s mind was now feverishly raking words and thoughts together, as he had forgotten to prepare a false identity. He needed to have answers for questions that would doubtlessly come.

Tullia looked him over. “You need some attention,” she said.

“But I do not work for you.”

“True. But as I said. If the soldiers think they can treat any whore in this camp like that, then they are mistaken. I will have words. But first I will have a look at you.”

She led him through the tents towards one that was larger than the others. It was almost luxuriously furnished, for the tent of a whore in a camp like this, and she made him sit down on the bedroll.

“You will be a sight to behold tomorrow,” she said and took a jug and a bowl. She poured water, and set to the task of cleaning the blood off his face. The split eyebrow stung and he hissed as she touched it.

“Fucking cunts,” she huffed. “Look at you. Such a face. Such a fine body. And they treat you like this. I hope their cocks shrivel and fall off.”

“As do I,” Nasir replied.

Then she leaned back and narrowed her eyes.

“They didn’t let you oil up either, did they?”

Nasir shook his head.

“I will have their cocks myself,” Tullia said with a growl.

“If you can find them,” Nasir replied and closed his eyes, “I shall gladly hold them down for you.”

“Not fucking likely,” Tullia muttered and sighed. “Here,” she said then and held out a piece of cloth to him. “Clean yourself up as best as you can, and I find you an ointment.”

“Gratitude,” Nasir replied and began to unlace his trousers. “But why are you doing this?”

Tullia was silent for a moment, and when she turned around, the smile on her face made Nasir nervous.

“You are of a fine form, my boy. So very firm and shapely muscled... for a whore.” She made a significant pause. “Are you not?”

Nasir’s throat went dry.

“And I have not seen you before tonight, either.”

They looked at each other for a small eternity.

Nasir swallowed. “What will you do now?”

“Oh.” Tullia produced a vial from a chest. “What I should do is drag you to the centurion, but if I do that depends on what you will do.”

“And... What would you have me do?” He knew the answer already, but his weariness returned threefold when he heard it.

“Easy.” Tullia sat down next to him again. “A fair trade, I would say. I keep you alive, and you fill my purse.”

Nasir exhaled softly. “I stand absent choice,” he said and dropped his head.

“You do, my boy.” Tullia held out the vial to him. “You do.”

Nasir took it, and gritted his teeth as he closed his fingers around it.


	4. Chapter 4

As if the gods were still trying to piss and shit on them it also started to rain now, and the wind picked up speed as well. With no more shelter than the rocks at his back Agron was unable to protect the children from the cruel elements, and he listened to their crying with an aching heart. Not also scared and alone but also hungry and freezing, they could hardly feel any more miserable.

In one last, desperate attempt to make it more bearable for them he switched their positions and clutched the children into his arms with their backs against the rocks, curling over them as much as he could to shield them from the rain with his body. They were shivering with cold so hard their teeth were rattling, and Agron would have cursed the gods if he had had any strength to spare.

The gods did not give a shit, either about being mocked or begged for aid, so there was no point in invoking their names.

Eventually the rain stopped again but the children were no less miserable for it. Agron was shivering as well now, and he wondered how much longer the poor children were able to bear such treatment.

At that moment he felt something being draped across his back. He looked up into Laeta’s face.

“Someone had a blanket to spare,” she said and tucked the blanket around his shoulders. “I feel you need it more than we others do.”

Agron nodded. “Gratitude.

This blanket was thicker and warmer, and also larger than what the children currently had wrapped around their bodies. Agron divested them of the soaked rags and bundled all three of them together into the dry blanket. 

Sharing the blanket with Agron’s larger body the children eventually stopped shivering but not crying. It took them a long time to fall asleep again, and Agron just watched their faces, faces that should be soft in sleep, and not etched with lines of fear and hunger and grief. It made them look far older than they were, and it made his heart bleed.The poor little things did not deserve such a fate.

If only there was something he could do to make them smile again.

* * *

In their urge to put yet more distance between them and the Legion, the rebels were about again at first light. Agron walked around the makeshift encampment that was hastily broken, and eventually had been able to beg enough food together so the children could eat their fill. And even though it was shared willingly no one had much to give, so Agron didn’t take anything for himself. He could handle a few days without food far better than the children could.

They reached the highest point of the pass that evening, but there was no space to make any sort of encampment, to steep the ground around them. There were many children who were crying with exhaustion and hardly able to go on, and it was no different for Agron’s little fosterlings.

He became desperate now; the two were wasting away before his very eyes. He needed something, anything, to make it easier for them. And then Damiro suddenly stopped and sank to the ground. He sat down and shook his head while staring empty-eyed at his feet. It was clear he couldn’t go another step, but Agron couldn’t carry them both.

It was the young mother and her babe, nestled safely against her breast in a sling made from cloth, that gave Agron the idea. And with Laeta’s help, he tied Damiro to his back with the blanket as a sling, and picked up Randi to carry her in his arms.

He was pushing himself long past the point of exhaustion now, with no food or sleep after the battle that had lasted the better part of a day. His shoulder was burning, his hands throbbing with pain, and on his right flank a shallow cut began to itch and burn, a sign that infection was beginning to set in.

Yet he gritted his teeth and forced one foot in front of the other. He hadn’t been able to save his brother, he hadn’t been able to save Nasir, or anyone else who had stood with him through the last years, but by the fucking gods, he would save these children.

Anything else was not an option.

* * *

The descent down the pass in the darkness had taken its toll on everyone and they left several of their number behind that night, some never to rise again, and a few others to see them into shallow graves.

Agron had kept himself going with thinking back to his training in the ludus: rounds and rounds of carrying heavy wooden beams on his shoulders, throughout the whole night, and an hour’s rest and a scant meal before daily routine began.

This time it was different, though. This time he wasn’t breaking his back for some fucking Roman shit who wanted to turn his blood into coins, but to save two innocent lives. His body had taken a lot of abuse since his capture by the Romans and he had only grown stronger with it. This strength would seem them through now, all three of them.

But at least, for the moment, the gods had decided to stop pissing on them and the weather was as fine as it could be given the circumstances. The sun rose above a thick sea of fog filling the valley before them, but while the ground was still too steep to make proper camp at least it was possible to sit down and rest weary legs.

Agron needed Laeta’s help again in getting Damiro off his back, and she also helped him finding some food. Agron himself refused, but Laeta held out the piece of stale bread to him again.

“You must eat as well,” she said. “If you starve yourself and your strength fails you, then what becomes of them?”

Randi and Damiro stopped chewing and stared at Agron with huge, fearful eyes. Agron sighed, looked at Laeta, and grudgingly took the bread. It was little nourishment as it was, but it was more than nothing.

They got on their way not much later, in the hopes of reaching more level ground before the next evening. To everyone’s relief the bottom of the valley was large enough for making camp, barely so but still, and there even was a small lake that provided much needed fresh water.

It was Sibyl who approached Agron as he sat there with his legs outstretched, the children next to him curled up in the grass and wrapped into the blanket, deep asleep. She was carrying a water skin and a piece of cloth.

“I saw the wound,” she said slowly.

“Which one?” Agron replied with a mirthless smile.

“The one on your side,” Sibyl said. “It needs cleaning.”

Agron adjusted his position so she could reach the wound, and closed his eyes with a hiss as the cloth touched it. She carefully but thoroughly cleaned the shallow cut which made it bleed again, so she pressed the fabric onto the wound.

“The gods will bless you for what you are doing,” she said softly.

“The gods piss and shit on me,” Agron gave back darkly. “And when they are done with that they spread cheeks and shove fucking cock in ass.”

Sibyl inhaled deeply, but said nothing.

“Apologies,” Agron said after a moment.

“It is not me you should apologize to,” Sibyl replied. “You are still alive and-”

“And everyone I ever held close to heart is dead,” Agron cut in. “Everyone. My whole family. All of my friends and brothers. Even the...” his voice broke. “Even the man I loved. Everyone is gone. The gods took everything and everyone from me and I am left alive like this!” He held out his maimed hands. “And you expect me to be fucking grateful?”

Sibyl gave him a faint, one sided shrug. “The children are,” she said mildly.

Agron stared at her with his mouth open, but he could not think of a reply so he closed it again.

“Let me tend to your hands,” she said then. “I can wash the bandages in the lake and you should wash the wounds as well.”

Agron took a deep breath, but nodded and laboured onto his feet.

The water was so cold it stung, but he kept his hands submerged long enough for them to go almost numb.

While he was at it he also used the water to wash away the blood and grime that still clung to him, remnants from the battle two days past already. And even though it was almost unbearably cold on his skin it was a relief to get rid of the stench of old blood.

Sibyl now took one of his hands in hers, her fingers soft and gentle, and proceeded to carefully clean the wounds on his palm and the back of his hand. It hurt like fire, but because of the numbing effect of the ice-cold water it was at least bearable.

After cleaning the wounds Sibyl wrapped the hands into the cleaned bandages again. “I know it does not feel that way,” she began, “but you may yet gain more use of them back than you think.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?” Agron looked at his hand. He was still hardly able to curl his fingers even a bit, and making a fist was impossible.

“I knew a man once,” Sibyl said. “A horse had stepped on his hand and crushed it. It had taken some time to heal, but he regained use of his hand again, enough to ply his trade.”

Agron stared at his hands. “And what was his trade? Do you know?”

“He was a blacksmith,” Sibyl replied, looking at memories with a wistful smile. “He was a good man.”

“Fucking Attius?”

“No.” Sibyl shook her head. “It was before I was sold to my Dominus in Sinuessa.”

Agron was still looking at his hands. A bit of blood had seeped through the bandages, and he watched the faint red spots on the white fabric.

“My father was a blacksmith before he was a warrior,” he said slowly. “Yet I never took any interest in his craft.”

Sibyl got up. “Please do not hesitate to ask for aid with your wounds should they give you trouble.”

“Gratitude.” Agron looked up at her.

He slowly closed his fingers as much as he could, and focussed on the pain in his palm. Sometimes it felt as if the nails were still buried in his flesh. And he would never even get the revenge he had sworn.

Then he got up with a sigh and let his eyes roam across the valley and the people huddled together in small groups around fires.

Revenge would not change anything. Even tearing Caesar from limb to fucking limb would give him nothing back of what he had lost.

Revenge was a thing of the past. Revenge was something he could no longer grasp, as little as he could ever grasp a sword again. And he could not secure any future with further blood.

He looked over his shoulder at the children wrapped into the blanket, his shoulders heaving in a heavy sigh.

* * *

The mood in the camp turned subdued and the people grew hushed and quiet as the sun rose and the fog vanished in the meagre warmth.

It was one thing to know winter was upon the mountain peaks, but now, after the fog was gone, they could see that before them lay yet another rise. They were sheltered, but far from being past the mountains. They had at least one more ridge to crest, and while it was not winter yet and they had been spared snow so far, there was no doubt that what lay ahead would be worse than Melia Ridge.

There was nothing in terms of food in the little valley, as little as there were trees for firewood. A few low larch trees, and bits of willow shrubbery, that was it. But at least they could make fires, and Agron shared one with Sibyl, Laeta and the young mother, a woman from Illyria called Teuta. Enslaved as a child, there was no home for her to return to, so she stayed with the women she had grown close to, together with her son. She had named him Cadmus, the name of a king of her home country of old, as she said, remembered from childhood stories told by a mother long gone. He had been fathered by her Dominus, but she took now pride in the fact he would not bear a roman name.

Agron had never thought about children of his own; he had never favoured women so the thought of marriage and family had never arisen in his mind, yet sometimes he could hardly tear his eyes away from the infant boy. He was being fed and kept dry and loved, and he didn’t have a care in the world. His innocent smiles and happy little gurgles were the only thing that could bring a tiny smile onto Agron’s face.

As he sat there staring into the flames he wished that his little fosterling could wake the same reactions, or more than a feeling of pity and responsibility. He had the blanket draped around his shoulders and one child on each leg, arms and blanket around them to hold them close and keep them warm, and yet he wished he could show them more fondness. They deserved to be loved as much as any other child, but they had no one left to do so.

He also had no illusion that they might love him; he was their protector, they clung to him in sheer terror of being alone again, not because they held any love for him. Agron had no doubt that the three women he shared the fire with would take care of them should anything happen to him, but another loss would be devastating to the poor little creatures.

Agron had often remembered his father lately, his smile and his deep, rough voice, and he remembered the feeling of looking up at him and calling him Papa. Yet the two little ones in his arms were not his, they would never call him Papa and ask him for stories of war or a ride on his shoulders. It caused a great sadness, but he did not deny that he rather thought about the fate of the poor children, rather ponder their loss and their pain than his own. Maybe he had been more selfish than he cared to admit, having taken them under his wings, as they were what kept his mind from falling into despair after having lost his heart.

A gust of wind made the flames of the little fire dance and the children in his arms shudder. He had no idea if any of them could survive a crossing of the next ridge, as this time they would definitely have to cross through ice and snow.

“Many will not make it,” Laeta whispered now, as if she had read his thoughts, but the fear of the next ridge was on everyone’s mind right now.

Agron could only shake his head.

“But we cannot stay here either,” Sibyl replied then. “What else are we to do?”

“Nothing,” Agron said as he stared into the flames. “We only have a chance if we try to cross.”

There was nothing more to say as it was the plain truth. Death no longer followed on their heel in the form of roman soldiers, it now lurked ahead in snow and ice and treacherous footing. 

None of them found much sleep that night.

* * *

They broke camp the next morning and tried to prepare for the march as best as they could. They all knew that most likely, death would be their reward if they tried to cross the ridge at this time of year, but death was a certainty if they stayed.

The children were barefoot which until now had not posed a great problem, but now Agron feared frostbite and the loss of limbs. He tore the threadbare blankets up to wrap them around the childrens’ legs and feet as makeshift boots, but had reached his physical limits before he could accomplish the task. His maimed hands were not able to tie the fabric into place.

Something snapped in him at that moment, and it was all he could do to turn away from the children before he fell to his knees and slammed both his hands against the hard ground with a scream of fury and frustration, cursing the gods for throwing helpless children into his life while being too crippled to properly care for them.

His fury was drained again as fast as it had come, and he could feel a lot of eyes on him, and looks of both pity and fear. Yet he only feared for the children and what his uncontrolled rage might have done to them as he stared at his hands him with heaving shoulders. His outburst had caused the wounds to re-open again and blood seeped through the bandages, and his palms were throbbing in pain. He dropped his head with a grunt.

He didn’t expect the touch and almost flinched away when a pair of thin, delicate arms wrapped around his neck, and he closed his eyes as he felt Randi lean her head against his temple. This was wrong. It was wrong that a child should attempt to comfort him instead of the other way round. And then he felt a tiny touch on his cheek, soft, warm, and slightly moist.

It took him a moment to realise it had been a kiss.

He lifted his head again and found her look at him with a small, shy smile and sad eyes. She had already lost most of her childish innocence, looked far older than she should, but that small smile was genuine despite the worry in her eyes.

“Apologies,” he said, his voice rough from his scream. “I am not angry with you.”

“Have you hurt your hands?”

It was more words than she had said to him so far, and Agron tried to smile. “They have been damaged a while ago. I cannot use them properly.”

“You can ask Laeta to help you. Or Sibyl.”

Sometimes Agron wondered how he had remained alive so long with a skull that thick. It was shameful that it needed the pragmatism of a child to make him use his brains for something other than self-pity and cursing the gods. Without thinking he nudged Randi’s forehead with his own and laboured onto his feet again.

“Laeta?” He called, and when she looked up, he continued: “I would need help.”

Laeta nodded and hurried to his side, and quickly took care of what Agron had been unable to achieve.

“I know it is hard for a proud warrior such as yourself to ask for help,” she said then and reached out as if rest her hand on his arm, yet stopped short of touching him. “Know that we see no weakness in it.”

A bitter little smile formed on Agron’s face. “I have nothing left to take pride in,” he said heavily. “And I am not a warrior anymore.”

Laeta was visibly trying to find something comforting to say, but in the end just shrugged and brushed her fingers across the skin of Agron’s arm after all, in a gentle touch to offer comfort.

Agron nodded and turned towards the ridge again, and took a deep breath while gritting his teeth.


	5. Chapter 5

Nasir was granted respite, for now. The roman army broke camp the very next day, and that meant the followers’ camp was broken as well. And since Tullia seemed to be the only person who had truly paid attention, no one looked at Nasir twice. That is, after Tullia had mentioned that she’d taken the boor boy under her wings after how the legionaries had treated him.

He had bruises on his arms and on his left cheek, and the split eyebrow above the bruise made it difficult to look out of the eye. The fact that he had invisible injuries was undoubted, and a few of Tullia’s whores showed sympathy and shared some wine with him. They had quickly taken a shine to the ‘poor pretty boy’ and were doting on him, a fact Nasir would have well been able to live without. Yet it was infinitely better than being accused of being a rebel, so he played his part, the part of a naive young slave boy who had run away from a wealthy home to escape with his lover, only to fall further and further into damnation and despair when the one who held his heart had been sent to war and then was lost in battle.

Nasir could only thank the gods that had led him to meet a few Syrians during recruit training who, during several evenings spent together sharing wine, had helped him to remember and re-learn the language of his childhood. He was not completely fluent, but it was enough to fool Romans should push come to shove.

He was also granted the mercy of riding in Tullia’s cart, as walking would have been agony, a fact Tullia was well aware of. She was ruthless in the way she bound him to her will, but was actually kind and understanding in her treatment of him. He was obviously not to be used and discarded, which was disheartening. It made escaping her clutches that much harder.

The next ordeal that awaited him days later, as they drew closer to Rome, was of a completely different nature. Of course, on their way back to Rome, they had to take the Appian Way and pass the countless crosses lining the road on both sides.

Nasir didn’t look up. He didn’t want to see faces of people he knew, people who might even have been friends. But then the cruel, agonizing thought appeared in his mind that one of these people might be Agron, and he forced himself to look after all.

Because if he would find him, he would kill him.

Tullia’s coachman had a large knife at his belt, and Nasir’s eyes kept darting towards the blade. Grab it, jump from the wagon, and even though he knew he had only a few heartbeats, it would be enough to slice into the large artery in the thigh to make him bleed to death within moments. The thought alone made him want to puke and curl up screaming, but another, calm and cold part of his mind still battling for control, knew that he could not let him hang there to suffer, even if he would get crucified himself if he failed to slit his own throat fast enough.

He knew that the screams and moans of the tortured men and women on those crosses would haunt him for the rest of his days, even more so when he could spot a face that was familiar.

“The fall of a legend,” Tullia’s coachman said. “He had it all, and threw it all away, only to die like a miserable rebel slave.”

Nasir had to close his eyes, but the image of Gannicus nailed to a cross, his face pale with bloodied lips and empty eyes, had burned itself into his mind. It cost him all the strength he had to hide behind Tiberius and remain outwardly calm. His soul was screaming. Yet he didn’t make a sound.

Nasir would never have been able to imagine he would be so relieved to reach the gates of Rome itself, as it only meant he had finally escaped the crosses and his dying people. For the moment he was too numb with pain to care what would become of him inside the city walls.

He was not the least surprised that his journey ended in a whorehouse, but it was a small relief that it wasn’t a shoddy, run-down, miserable hole where he would have to sell his body for a pittance, and to men who treated whores as fuckholes and nothing more. The place was clean, the whores were clean, and there were no loud and raunchy men fucking them against walls or on tables. It looked almost like a normal villa of a wealthy roman patrician.

“See yourself to a bath,” Tullia told him after she had accompanied him inside. “I shall meet you there. Sestia, show him where it is.”

Yet he was the only one who was brought here, and the others left again following Tullia.

Sestia was a woman who was around Nasir’s age, blonde and beautiful, and he reminded him a bit of Chadara, whom he still missed. She had been his friend and confidant for most of his life, and he still blamed himself, at least partly, for her death, or rather the circumstances leading to it. He should have seen what was going on inside her, but had been too lost in what was going on between him and Agron.

Agron.

There it was again, that numbness where pain should be, and Nasir wondered what would happen to him if it would truly sink in. Or if it already had and there was simply nothing left in him to feel. He would rather have it so. Just not feel anything anymore.

Sestia now led him across a large, airy atrium towards a door leading to a flight of stairs that lead down into a room with smaller windows, the walls lined with narrow cots.

“This is where we sleep when we are not working,” Sestia explained. “There is our bath. The one in the main building is for patrons.”

Nasir nodded and had a look around. Again, the place was well equipped for a whorehouse, almost pleasantly so.

“And those patrons...” he began and looked at her. “Wealthy men, I suppose?”

“Most definitely.” Sestia clearly took pride in her workplace. “Anyone less than the patricians cannot afford our services.”

“I do not understand,” Nasir said then. “If the whores in this place are so expensive, what was Tullia doing in the followers’ camp of the legion?”

Sestia gave him a narrow smile. “Tullia is only a whore, just like we are, although her days are long past. She works for Aulus as well. He owns two more brothels and she is in charge of the venues of... lesser standing.”

“So not all of them are like this?”

“The other places are shitholes.” Sestia replied and pulled aside a curtain. “You have been lucky.”

Nasir looked around the room and the basin in front of him. “I suppose.”

He had just finished washing his hair when the curtain opened again, and Tullia entered in the company of a man, still older than her but wearing the toga of a wealthy man.

“Is this him?”

“It is.” Tullia seemed very pleased with herself. “Look for yourself.”

“Let me look at you then,” the man said and gestured at Nasir to get out of the water.

Nasir gritted his teeth as he left the bath while Sestia was ordered out of the room, and let himself be appraised like a piece of cattle.

“Aulus Axius Siculus owns the most expensive establishment in Rome,” Tullia said sternly. “He serves only the wealthiest, most refined customers.”

Nasir looked at her, arms slightly spread. “I am surprised that you see fit to bring me here, considering how you found me.”

Aulus had finished his appraising and walked around him again.

“He has scars.”

“He does,” Tullia replied. “But I do have ideas.”

“Hmm. Ideas.” Aulus took one of Nasir’s arms, stretched it out, and ran a finger across his biceps. “I see the potential.”

Aulus let go of his arm and stepped around him again. He looked him up and down again and then met Nasir’s eyes. “I know what you are, Syrian. But I agree with Tullia. We can groom you into something worthy of this place, so be grateful for the honour, as I could easily dismiss you into one of the other brothels.”

Nasir remained silent. What was he supposed to say, after all?

“There is one rule,” Aulus said sternly. “You do as I say. I do not like my whores branded like slaves, but you are a property of this house now, understand?”

Nasir took a deep breath. “Yes, Dominus.”

Now Aulus frowned at him and walked around Nasir again. “Why is it that you bear no brand?”

“I was body slave to my Dominus, and he would not have me be marred by brand or mark either.” Nasir was beginning to feel more and more like Tiberius, and even though it made his life easier, he didn’t like it. “He branded the back of my head when he bought me. If you need to see it, you would have to shear my hair.”

Aulus stepped closer, dug his fingers into Nasir’s hair, and parted the strands to peek at his scalp. “I see,” he said when he found the traces of the brand. “It suits me fine.” Then he stepped in front of him again. “Follow orders, and all is well. Give me grief, and I sell you to a peddler of flesh in the harbour of Neapolis after properly branding you. Understood?”

“Yes, Dominus.”

“Good.” Aulus adjusted his toga. “I shall speak to you again when you no longer look as if you just got out of a tavern brawl. Sestia will take care of your needs until then.”

“Gratitude, Dominus.”

Nasir remained where he was even after they had left, still dripping water, and only slowly managed to get himself moving again. He slid into the basin and closed his eyes, but opened them again when all he could see where endless rows of crosses.

So he was a slave again, after all. And not only a slave, but a whore. True, he had ended up in a place that was luxurious and clean, and he was sure that whores were not mistreated here. It could be so much worse, but Agron would still turn in his grave if he knew.

* * *

Nasir did not find sleep that night, to vivid the memories, the images of crosses and familiar faces burned in his mind, a fresh and agonizing wound. So many... so many still hanging there, their bodies slowly failing, wasting away slowly and in agony while he was resting in comfort now. He had been bathed, had been given clean subligaria and a tunic, he had a bed with blanket and pillow and had been offered food, which he yet had been unable to eat. He had not lived this luxuriously since leaving his Dominus’ villa.

And while he was sitting here like this, other had died painful deaths, were still suffering under horrible torture, or were out in the mountains fighting for their lives in a very different battle. All while he was being offered fresh bread and cheese and watered wine.

The other whores in this place, mostly women, had listened to the story he had been plotting with Tullia with sympathy. The slave boy who ran away from luxury and comfort of a wealthy master to follow the one he had lost his heart to, being banned to followers’ camp when his lover had marched into war, only to lose him to a bloody death.

He was being told how lucky he was to have ended here, and not in one of the other whorehouses Aulus owned. In a way, that might have even been true. But he was still a slave again, and a whore, and there was no way of escaping.

The doors to the house were watched by guards, and even if he would manage to slip out somehow, he still had no more than a tunic and a small stone. He wouldn’t get further than two streets before he would be captured again, this time to be thrown into fate far worse. He would not gain freedom here, but he would be treated well, and maybe, one day, he would find a chance to escape after all.

The idea was enormous, and it made him tired to the bones even thinking about it. Fleeing this house was one thing, but getting out of the city with nothing more than a tunic on his back was something else entirely. And then he would have to travel north across the republic, alone and without means, reach the Alps, find a pass and cross the mountains, and even if he would ever get that far, which wasn’t likely, he would then have to find survivors to turn to.

He would have had better chances facing a handful of gladiators in the arena, armed with naught but a spoon.

Best to let those thoughts fall from mind for good. There was no chance he would ever make it even beyond the city gates. Death might be preferable after all by now, but it was a way that was barred to him. The way he was kept now gave him no opportunity to get his hands on anything with which to take his life, and running away would only get sold to a cheap, dirty whorehouse with the only life left to him being reduced to a piece of flesh, to be discarded when he would be as worn out as an old cleaning rag. He couldn’t say which was worse.

Why by the fucking gods hadn’t he taken his life when he had the chance? Would what might have happened to his dead body really have made a difference to Agron or his memory? Would he really care about his rotting corpse in the afterlife? He would likely not, but he would curse the gods, and probably Nasir in his stupidity, to see him like this. With no escape. Death was a path no longer available to him, as disobedience would not lead to being executed but to a fate far worse. And the whores had no access to anything resembling a weapon, so he had nothing with which he could end himself.

He also couldn’t help but wonder who might still be alive. He knew that of those who had gone into battle with him, none had left the battlefield alive but he himself. But the others, Laeta, Sibyl, Teuta and her boy, and so many others, their faces known to him if not their names. They had reached the mountains, but would they manage the crossing? Winter was falling hard and fast on the peaks, and they had little protection from the elements.

Through the walls of their room he could hear music, and laughter, and from somewhere else the sound of coupling. He had been told that there were rooms and alcoves for that instead of just taking the nearest available surface, and the fact that the place even had musicians just showed how wealthy the patrons had to be.

Yet it would make little difference. Nasir had lost ownership of his body again, and this time there was no Spartacus to break him free of bondage. Nasir spent his night awake and listened to the sounds that would define his life now.

Sestia found him like this the next morning and silently sat down next to him before slinging both arms around his shoulders. Nasir did not resist the offered comfort and sank into her embrace, and she kissed the top of his head and caressed his hair as she held him.

“It will all get better,” she whispered. “Wounds will heal, and you shall find your place here. You are still alive.”

“I do not wish to be alive like this,” Nasir whispered.

“The choice was removed from your hands,” Sestia replied gently. “Now it is up to you to make the best of the lot the gods have given to you.”

Nasir didn’t reply, but then the door opened and Aulus entered the room, two house slaves in attendance. Sestia jumped away from him and hastily straightened her gown.

“Tiberius,” Aulus said sternly, and beckoned him over.

Nasir got up and stepped towards him.

“Measure him,” Aulus said to the two slaves, and took a few steps back.

Nasir closed his eyes as the two slaves measured his body, the length of arms and legs and torso and the width of his chest and hips. When they were done Aulus dismissed them, and crossed his arms as he looked Nasir over.

“I like your shape,” Aulus said after a moment. “And Tullia and I have shared some thoughts. So here is what we do.” Aulus stepped closer and took a strand of Nasir’s hair between his fingers. “We shall go easy on the jewels, and we can hide the worst of those fucking scars with coloured oil. Sestia, you have a hand for this, do him a few braids with thread-of-gold.”

“Yes, Dominus.”

“We make a prince out of you,” Aulus said to Nasir with a smile that was meant to be benevolent but that made Nasir recoil. “The Syrian prince. Men and women both will be eager to have you serve them. You will turn a fine profit, boy.”

Nasir pressed his lips together.

“Ah, strike fear and worry from mind. No one abuses my whores, and no ass is ever fucked absent oil. You will doubtlessly be showered with many gifts and trinkets, and you will be allowed to keep those to yourself.”

“Apologies, Dominus,” Nasir said hesitantly. “What would I do with these things?”

“Keep them,” Aulus replied with a smile. “Every now and then I give a few of you leave to visit the market, attended by Gerus, of course. You can sell them there and buy something your heart desires.” He chuckled and pinched Nasir’s cheek. “Absent your freedom from these walls, of course.”

Nasir attempted to smile.

“So give me no reason to distrust you, and you can find yourself in that position,” Aulus went on.

“Gratitude, Dominus.”

Aulus nodded and looked at Sestia. “Fulvius has announced his arrival later this day, keep yourself prepared for him.”

Sestia nodded. “Yes, Dominus.”

Aulus nodded again and left.

“Fulvius is especially fond of me,” Sestia explained, not without a hint of pride. “He is almost old enough to be my grandfather and more often than not his cock stays limp no matter what I do. But he is very generous. Easily earned reward without having to spread my legs.”

Then Sestia nudged Nasir in the ribs. “Come then, Syrian prince. Let us break meal.”

Nasir didn’t even attempt to smile, but followed her nonetheless.


	6. Chapter 6

The worst part was not the increasing amount of ice and snow on the path, it was not knowing how long they would have to walk, how far it was to the crest of the ridge, and how steep the descent on the other side. And since Agron couldn’t carry the children all the way he needed to preserve his strength, for the event that there was no other way.

They had passed the snow line around mid-day, but the peaks above were shrouded in mist so there was no telling how far up it would yet go. Children were crying and complaining about the cold, but they were not the only ones. Coming from the warmer climes south of the Alps, none of them were dressed for these conditions, Agron included.

Melia Ridge had been bad, but at least he had had a cloak back then, now he had nothing but the armour in which he had gone to battle, never planning beyond. He was freezing as much as all the others.

Their only chance lay now in moving, in pressing forward until they could cross the ridge and find another valley on the other side. Any pause and delay would decrease their chances of survival in this cold, so it was pushing on or dying in the snow.

Forcing one foot in front of the other Agron wondered how long he would be able to keep himself going.

He had been campaigning with Crixus for weeks, fighting one battle after the other, and while they had been victorious, there had been little time for rest. Then he had been wounded and captured, and on top of everything, he had been nailed to a cross. Barely healed enough to move, from wounds of both battle and torture, he had then engaged in another battle, and had now been travelling through the mountains on foot for days without much nourishment or rest. Every muscle in his body hurt and he was fighting with a bone-deep exhaustion. Sheer willpower kept him going, but he knew that at one point that too would fail him.

Yet the two small hands in each of his own reminded him with every step of what was at stake. So he gritted his teeth even more, thought of Duro and Nasir and his family and his friends, and he tried to think of two children who were laughing and playing with a ball, midsummer sunshine throwing short shadows behind them.

The thought of summer and warmth made the cold around him only worse. But it gave him something to reach for.

They followed a stream that had cut a deep gorge into the valley that was their path, flowing into the direction they had come from. Even though the surface was frozen in places the water still gurgled over rapids and down small waterfalls, but the further they travelled uphill the deeper the gorge became, until they could hardly hear the stream anymore. The path beside the gorge was narrowing as well, and with the footing made treacherous by snow, travelling became more and more dangerous.

Yet they could not afford to slow down too much; if darkness found them before they had found some sort of shelter, they were all dead.

Their progress was slowed even more when the path occasionally became so narrow they had to walk single file, and Agron was getting more and more worried, and angry as well at the gods who seemed to have given them hope out of sheer spite, only to dash it now on the rocky peaks covered in ice and snow.

Their lips turned bluish with cold, Randi and Damiro were too exhausted even to cry, and they heavily clung to Agron’s hands. He would have tried to carry them, in turns at least, but with the footing becoming more treacherous on the narrow path, a single misstep could have hurled them both over the edge of the gorge.

In front of them, Laeta and Sibyl were also fighting their way through the snow, freezing and tired as anyone. Agron alternated between cursing the gods and begging them for mercy to let them all live.

They lost a fair number of their ranks to the cold again; they kept passing bodies of those who had succumbed to the cold, and doubtlessly there were also some who had done so behind them.

But the refugees still dragged themselves further up like a trek of damned souls bound for the underworld.

A second of inattention coupled with tired muscles almost ended Agron’s journey then and there. His foot slipped and a small snow slab broke off under his heel. Below had been nothing but air, and he had just about time to let go of Randi’s hand before he lost his balance. He desperately fought to regain his footing, but it was too late.

He could hear the screams above as he tumbled down, the sheer drop of the cliff preceded by a bit of a slope. Grappling for a hold he just about managed to grasp the edge, and for a moment he dangled there by one hand, below him a drop of about thirty feet. Swinging himself around he could get a grip with his other hand as well, but he couldn’t get a foothold on the steep wall of rocks.

Sheer adrenaline had let him react without thinking, but now his life was hanging by a thread; he was dangling over a precipice by maimed hands that were screaming in pain and slowly losing their grip. Trying to hold his whole weight by hardly more than his fingertips was agony, and a futile attempt of clinging to life. It would be only seconds before his grip would fail him.

One of his feet found a small bit of rock jutting out and he managed to reduce the weight his hands had to hold by the tiniest bit, but as he looked down in search for another hold, he could only see the stream far below.

It would be so easy.

Agron closed his eyes. Just let go. Give up. He had been fighting long past the point of what he could have been expected to endure. Just let go, and it would only be a second of pain before it was all over. Before he could embrace his friends and his brother and Nasir again on the shores of the afterlife.

“Agron!” The shrill, high-pitched scream of horror jolted through his spine, Randi’s voice cutting into his mind like a knife. “Agron!!”

He couldn’t.

This time it was Duro’s voice in his head as clearly as he had heard Nasir’s.

_Get your arse going, brother. You are not done yet._

He sent a last prayer to every god that might listen, but then also thought of his loved ones lost to him, to aid him if they could.

And with a scream of agony and fury, he pushed himself off the rocky cliff and pulled with all the strength he had yet left. It wasn’t much. But somehow, inexplicably, he managed to chin himself up and bring his upper body over the edge. His hands were screaming and throbbing in pain. His whole body hurt.

And he could still hear the children cry.

The whole thing hadn’t lasted more than a few heartbeats, and it still felt to Agron as if he had been dangling there for hours.

“Agron!” That was no child, and he looked up to see a man he didn’t know abseil himself down the slope towards him.

Agron reached out with the last of his waning strength, and he wasn’t quite clear about how the man and those who were holding the rope managed to drag him up onto the path again.

He landed on his face and just about managed to turn onto his back with a groan. He was in so much pain he didn’t even register the cold of snow and ice under him anymore.

“Agron!”

Two small bodies flung themselves at him, and small hands began frantically tugging at his arms and straps of his armour.

“Get up!”

Agron opened his eyes when he registered the panic in Damiro’s voice.

“Get up! You have to get up!” The boy had tears on his face, eyes wide in panic. “Get up! Agron! You have to get up!”

_I can’t_ , Agron wanted to say. Because he couldn’t.

“You have to get up,” Laeta said as she knelt down beside him. “Words has reached us from the very front that the descent is not much further ahead.”

_Can’t._

Laeta grabbed him by the shoulders and managed to bring him into a sitting position. For a moment Agron could only lean heavily against her.

_Can’t get up anymore. Can’t move._

“Agron...” Randi was crying, her voice flat with terror. “Agron please...”

“Agron,” Laeta said and brushed snow from his face. “You cannot give up. Not now, when safety is already within reach.”

Two pairs of hands clasped around his forearms and pulled, and somehow, Agron managed to get onto his feet. He just couldn’t keep himself upright anymore. The man who had dragged him up now slung one of Agron’s arms around both of his shoulders and his own arm around Agron’s midriff. He more dragged than supported him as Agron forced one foot in front of the other again. Alone, he wouldn’t have been able to take another step.

Small, cold fingers clutched his free hand as he dragged himself onward, supported by his saviour whom Agron didn’t even know the name of. Agron couldn’t return the gesture, his hands stiff with pain.

The ground levelled out below their feet, but before too long it began to slope downwards again, and the fact that the slope leading down was not nearly as steep as the one leading up was what saved them all. They could slow their pace enough so the descent could be faced without risking more accidents.

Dusk was already falling as Agron and the others had managed to cross the ridge, and they had to pause for a moment halfway down the slope towards the floor of another valley.

Sobs of relief mingled with praise of the gods and words of gratitude towards them.

Because in the waning light they could see that there was no other ridge to cross ahead. No more peaks rose out of the murky twilight before them.

They had done the impossible. On foot, tired, hungry, and freezing, the battered survivors had crossed the Alps.

They were still far from being out of danger, as the mountains had not let them go free yet, but the worst part was over. They would have to go another day, at least, until they would have reached the foothills, easier ground, and the prospect of proper rest and food, but the deadly ridges lay behind them. They had lost almost a third of their number to ice and snow, but still, many of them had prevailed and were now truly out of reach of the republic.

Twilight was overcome by darkness, but the skies above were clear and moonlight on snow illuminated the ground enough for them to cautiously advance their descent. The knowledge of having passed the worst had given wings to hope and lent new strength, and they made it down past the snow line again. It was only then that they stopped, in the dead of the night but finally free of ice and snow.

Laeta and the others found a spot of more or less level ground to get Agron settled, but he fell over like a sack as soon as his arse touched the ground. He had no idea why he was still alive and how he had achieved it. And he couldn’t even say he was happy about it at this point.

He stared up into the star-dusted infinity above and wondered if his brother, or Nasir, or Spartacus maybe, had reached out from the other side to lend him strength, because he could not think of another explanation.

Agron let himself be wrapped into the blanket, but the children settled down at his side before Laeta slung the blanket around them. One small head on each shoulder Agron closed his eyes again. He was in so much pain that the weight of Randi’s head on his wounded shoulder didn’t make a difference anymore.

But his exhaustion proved stronger than his pain, and he all but passed out moments later.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The forced prostitution starts in this chapter, but it is not brutally violent.

Nasir looked at himself in the mirror and didn’t know if he wanted to laugh, to cry, or to punch Aulus in the face.

He was only clad in a length of white fabric wrapped around his waist, tied with a knot at his left hip with the ends hanging down to almost his knee. Oil blended with a bit of ochre and dusted gold had been rubbed into his skin so it looked almost like beaten bronze, and his eyes were lined with kohl. His hair was kept out of his face with a clasp at the back of his head, the rest of it flowing freely down his shoulders, and a braid interwoven with thread-of-gold hung in front of each ear. A long and delicate golden necklace was wrapped around his neck a few times, and he wore several golden bracelets around wrists and ankles.

He looked exactly like Aulus had intended: A whore dressed up as something that could, in the imagination of an ignorant, arrogant Roman, look like an exotic prince.

Both Aulus and Sestia were very pleased with his appearance, and Nasir could only be grateful that none of his friends would ever see him like this. But the worst part was that this kind of humiliation was still the lesser evil, still preferable to what fate awaited him if he became recalcitrant now. Aulus had made it abundantly clear that death was not an option, to keep him submissive.

Since no one knew his true name and Tiberius was considered ill-fitting for a man of his appearance, Aulus had made up a name that sounded as exotic as Nasir now looked. Nasir had no idea if Asheeran was a real name or not, and he didn’t care either. It was not his name, as little as Tiberius.

And he dimly wondered if this was similar to what Spartacus had felt when he had been given that name without consideration. He also wondered why he had never shared his true name with even his closest friends, but maybe it had been too painful a memory. The thought of confiding in Sestia certainly filled him with nothing but discomfort.

On the other hand, he had now two layers of pretence behind which to hide his true self and his true feelings. And maybe, at one point, he would forget about them himself. Trying to cling to Nasir the rebel warrior certainly wasn’t going to help him now.

It was like this that he was presented to the patrons who were present that evening, but this wasn’t even where the humiliation ended. The whores always had to be prepared, to be of service at the patron’s will, and Nasir hated the slick feeling between his ass cheeks almost as much as the sensation of the golden bulb they had shoved inside him after preparing him, so he would stay open and ready. It ended in a lovely little flower that kept it in place, sure a beautiful sight for the one who was about to take him.

Nasir was beginning to ponder if it was possible to tear up bed linen to hang himself somewhere. Yet this would require a bit of planning, as he had to make absolutely sure nothing of his actions pointed back at Sestia in any way whatsoever. The last thing he wanted was getting her into trouble about him.

Sestia herself was clad in a deep-cut gown of white gauze, belted with a chain of gold, which left very little to imagination. She stayed with him as Nasir was positioned on a pile of pillows in a corner of the room, and settled down at his side, her head on his shoulder.

“Have you been commanded here?” Nasir asked under his breath.

“I am to be your consort,” she replied with a smile. “But I could imagine worse fates.”

Nasir was not sure what to say, so he said nothing.

It wasn’t before too long that the first patron approached them, and he beckoned them both into a room on the other side of the atrium. It was furnished with a large bed and a small shelf which contained everything that might be needed: folded cloths and a jug and bowl with water for cleaning, more oil, and a flagon of wine together with several goblets.

The Roman now sat down in the comfortable padded chair in the corner and ordered Sestia and Nasir to take to bed.

“Serve him,” he said to Sestia. “And serve him well.”

Nasir had given performances like this before with Chadara, as entertainment for guests of his former Dominus, so he knew what to expect and how to keep himself afloat. He was assisted in this by Sestia, who didn’t hesitate and deftly unwrapped his loincloth. The patron was already breathing heavily when she bent over his lap, and Nasir could only close his eyes.

Experienced in matters like this Sestia worked him with professional efficiency, but was ordered by the patron to stop short of Nasir’s completion.

“Ride him,” he said, voice rough with arousal. He was already stroking himself, and eyed the two on the bed with unmasked greed.

Sestia looked at Nasir with a smile, but Nasir could see compassion in her eyes. She leaned forward and cradled his face in her hands, and he returned her kiss as best as he was able. It was apparently enough for the patron whose rough panting bespoke of their successful performance.

Then she straightened up and mounted him, and Nasir closed his hands around her hips as she rode him. He tried to let everything else fall from mind, but if she hadn’t been an experienced whore who knew exactly how to go about it he would likely never have found to completion.

The patron finished himself shortly after, and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grunt.

“Clean up,” he said roughly. “And wine.”

Sestia nimbly climbed out of the bed and did as ordered; she cleaned the Roman’s seed off his hands and poured him a goblet of wine. Then she settled back at Nasir’s side and bedded her head on his shoulder, her hand caressing his chest.

The Roman poured half the contents of the goblet down his throat and looked at Sestia. “How is it to lie with a prince?”

“He is magnificent,” she replied with a low-lidded smile.

It seemed to be the answer the Roman wanted to hear because he smiled and drained his goblet. Then he left them, and Sestia poured more water into the bowl, moistened another cloth and helped Nasir clean up before cleaning herself.

“No other man’s fluids sticky between our legs when taking to bed with the next one.”

Nasir nodded and averted his eyes as she cleaned herself up, even if she didn’t seem to care one bit. He discovered that she was wearing the same bulb in her ass, so she had both her holes ready for any customer who wanted the choice.

He served two more Romans that evening, one with his mouth and the other with his ass, before Aulus gave him leave for the night as he was visibly beginning to fade. At least he was given the mercy of respite until he had gotten used to this.

Nasir was fighting with tears as he soaked himself in the bath to get rid of coloured and scented oil, kohl, and other men’s seed. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t.

And yet, even then he knew that he stood absent choice. Thinking about the alternative made him shudder and he slunk deeper into the water. Maybe he should stop thinking of himself as Nasir and really strive to become Tiberius again. Strike the rebellion from mind as distant memory of a man who no longer existed. Treat Agron and the memories about him as a happy dream of a slave boy who had dared to reach for things he had never been entitled to.

_This time you stay, and I go._

Nasir closed his burning eyes.

“You should not have gone without me,” he whispered tonelessly into the empty silence. “Why did you have to go without me?”

He did not want to relive the memory of his first kiss, not now, not like this, when he was washing the seed of wealthy roman shits off his legs. So he opened his eyes again and stared at the sponge in his hands, and at the droplets of water running over his fingers when he squeezed it as hard as he could.

_Jupiter himself would find cause to tremble if he laid hands upon you._

_You would battle a god for me?_

_I would slay all who would attempt to wrest you from my arms._

“Maybe now would be the time to make good on those words,” Nasir whispered and soaked the sponge again.

But no door to the Beyond was flung open; no wraith of fury and revenge appeared to spill blood over the white marble floors and then drag him away from this miserable existence. But at least Agron wouldn’t see him like this, as spectre or in the flesh.

Nasir brought the sponge to his skin again and tried to imagine that he cleaned off all the layers of himself, until only Tiberius remained. Washing away memories and feelings clinging to his soul like the oil still clinging to his skin. Find peace with this existence, as there was no way out.

Yet all this was easier said, and thought, than done. Because in his sleep, he had no defences, no means to resist the memories. The memories of Agron’s hands on his skin, the memories of chapped lips surrounded by rough stubble, the memories of a warm, firmly muscled chest against his back, and the memories of a brilliant smile and sparkling green eyes.

* * *

“You talked in your sleep last night,” Sestia told him the next morning. The whores had to share pallets, and Nasir had been made to share Sestia’s.

Nasir usually withdrew himself into the farthest corner to be alone with his thoughts while they ate because he was in no mind for idle chatter, but Sestia joined him with her own plate full of bread and grapes.

“If I ever find means to suppress and fight memories in dreams, I may find peace in sleep again,” Nasir replied and pushed a grape around on his plate with a finger. “Apologies if I kept you awake.”

Sestia leaned closer and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. “I wish I could help you.”

Nasir was able to give her a smile. “Gratitude. But it is not possible.”

“I know.” Sestia popped a grape between her lips. “It lies within you to make peace with your new life.”

Nasir didn’t reply and kept staring at his plate. He didn’t want to find peace, he wanted to cease existing.

He dimly wondered what Agron would have had to say to this. To find him here, like this, because in a moment of mindless panic the fate of Agron’s grave had been more important to Nasir than his own life.

Nasir.

He was not Nasir anymore. Nasir had died together with Agron on the battlefield. He was what remained, a body with half a soul, the other half gone where he could not follow.

“Tiberius.” The name already felt easier on his tongue.

Sestia leaned back and gave him a puzzled look, then she bit her lower lip. “It is not your name, is it?”

After a moment, Nasir looked up at her, a soft huff of breath coming from his lips, almost a mirthless chuckle. “It is. It always was. Everything else was a dream.”

He closed his eyes and in one last, silent prayer, asked his friends and brothers for forgiveness. They had done so much for him, but all that had been for nothing now. He took a deep breath and let go.

After a long, drawn-out exhale he opened his eyes again and looked at his plate. Then he picked up one of the grapes, and let the tart sweetness roll over his tongue as he bit it in half.


	8. Chapter 8

When Agron came to again he immediately wished he hadn’t woken up. Every bone in his fucking body hurt. Every muscle was stiff with cold and pain.

“Agron, you have to get up.” Small hands tugged at a strap of his armour. “Get up!”

He opened his eyes with a groan, and Randi’s face swam into view.

“Get up!”

Agron tried to sit up, but his abused and battered body protested. He gritted his teeth and tried again. Against all odds, he managed to get himself into a sitting position, but he hunched over and buried his face in his palms with another groan.

“Agron.” That was Laeta’s voice. “Rain is coming, by the look of it. We have to reach more level ground to build shelters.”

Agron looked up at her. “Shelter?”

“There are tents,” she explained. “Not nearly enough for all of us, but the weakest may find respite from the rain. But we need to reach more level ground.”

“Get going,” Agron said and made attempt to lie down again. “I shall join you shortly.”

“You shall do nothing of the sort!” Laeta reached his side and closed her hands around his forearms. “You need to get onto your feet!”

Agron looked up at her. “I just need a bit more rest,” he said and closed his eyes again. “I have no strength left. I cannot walk another step right now.”

“You do, and you will.” Laeta tugged at his arms. “We did not get this far only to succumb now. If you do, you let the Romans win after all.”

The bloody roman cunt had a point.

“Here.” Sibyl knelt down beside him and held something out to him that looked like a lump of dark, grainy dirt.

“Are we to eat our own shit now?” Agron eyed the lump in suspicion and unconcealed disgust.

“It is crushed grains and dried fruit,” Sibyl explained, unperturbed by his tone.

“It tastes funny,” Randi supplied with a childish frown.

Agron sighed, resigned to his fate, and took the slightly sticky lump. It was so soft and squishy, it even felt like shit. Yet it definitely smelled of dried fruit, so he managed to shove it into his mouth. The texture was atrocious though and he forced it down his throat with a minimum amount of chewing. Sibyl offered him a water skin afterwards which he took with a grateful nod.

“Now get onto your feet,” Laeta said and got up herself. “I know you are no gladiator anymore, but this is not the arena, and this battle is not won with sword and shield.”

Agron eyeballed her, but managed to get onto all fours and then, brought his feet under him. He swayed a little as he straightened up and Laeta was immediately at his side to offer assistance, but he managed to regain balance despite every muscle in his legs protesting. He arched his back, making his spine crunch and pop. He was immediately flanked by the children, and Agron now rolled his right shoulder, as the left one still hurt too much. His shoulder crunched as well.

And then Randi took one of his hands. “Are we home yet?”

“Home?” Agron tilted his head with a frown.

“Home,” Damiro said as well. “Mama said we are going home. North of the mountains.”

“Oh.” Agron looked at him, at Randi, and up at Laeta. “Not… quite.”

The children deflated and Randi was close to tears again.

“We shall get there,” Agron said and tried to sound soothing. “It is a long journey, but we have passed the worst part of it. Ground will be much easier to cover now.”

If he could actually cover any ground at all. He feared that the moment one of his feet left the ground he would lose his balance again, but against all expectations, he found he could walk.

“Think of it as fucking roman ass,” Laeta said with a dry smile. “And not letting them win. We shall prevail.”

“And one day we shall sit at a fire, drink mead, and laugh about it.” Agron cocked one eyebrow.

“Maybe,” Laeta replied, her smile softening.

Agron looked straight ahead, took a deep breath and exhaled again with puffed cheeks while shaking his head.

* * *

Walking loosened Agron’s stiff and aching muscles somewhat, but he still felt as if someone had beaten him with a sack full of hammers.

It started to rain shortly after midday, but while it was cold it was rain, not snow, and it restrained itself to being an unmotivated drizzle. They reached another gently sloping valley with a lake late in the day, and could finally, for the first time since parting ways with the warriors before the battle, set up tents or lean-tos. The rain had momentarily ceased and a few meagre fires were lit, with what little wood could be scrounged, and despite there being little food to cook it was a relief to be able to warm freezing hands and feet.

While the man who had rescued Agron from falling to his death now helped Laeta strike their shoddy tent, Sibyl took a look at Agron’s hands again. She cleaned the wounds and bandaged them again, and as soon as she was done, Randi and Damiro were back at Agron’s sides. They huddled under the blanket with him, and while the small lean-to they had was hardly more than a tilted roof made of fabric, it would keep them out of the rain.

There was no food, but at this point they needed sleep and rest more than anything else. So Agron settled down in their scant little shelter and curled around the small forms of the children, Randi against his chest and Damiro pulled against her, with Agron towards the opening so he could shield them from the elements should the need arise. Yet the gods seemed merciful for now as the skies cleared with falling darkness.

A small fire burned in front of their tent, a welcome glow of faint warmth at Agron’s back, but then he heard someone shift and sigh. He lifted his head to see Laeta just outside the tent curled up and wrapped into her blanket, lying as close to the fire as she dared. He could hear her teeth rattle from where he was.

Agron rolled his eyes with a sigh and shook his head, then shuffled cautiously a bit further into the tent.

“Come,” he said. “Share warmth.”

Laeta sat up, confusion in her eyes, then she swallowed and moved closer with a weak smile. Still wrapped into her own blanket she crept under the one Agron shared with the children, and turned away from him so they were now lying back to back. It seemed like Agron’s body generated warmth enough for all of them, because Laeta quickly stopped shivering, and Agron drifted off to sleep wedged in between the bodies of strangers he was beginning to hold an odd form of affection towards.

* * *

No one mentioned it as the refugees broke camp the next morning, but even despite the successful crossing of the Alps, they were far from safe. It was autumn, and they had no shelter and no food to see them through the winter. The days were short and the nights were cold, and survival was uncertain, at best.

But no one wanted to give up, and the only chance they had was to reach the Rhine valley, where the climes were milder. Not that they didn’t have winters there, but Agron knew that where the Romans had tried to colonize the lands, they were growing wine. Of low quality, for roman taste, of course, but if they were to survive a winter it was there, in his homelands, where snow wouldn’t reach your hips at midwinter. He tried hard to smother any hopes of finding any remaining family once they had reached the lands of his birth.

But even before they were ready to get on their way that day, there was a large and loud commotion on the eastern part of their encampment, and then someone came running to fetch Agron to settle a dispute.

Agron could have done without that, but he realised that as the last of Spartacus’ generals, he was the closest to a leader that they had. So he dragged himself up the slope and towards the large group of people who were ready to march.

The problem, as it turned out, was that they disagreed with their choice of direction. The leader of their fraction, a Greek named Perimedes, approached Agron and crossed his arms as if he expected a major confrontation.

“I fail to see why we should head further north,” he said. “We want to go home.”

“Home?” Agron asked.

“East and south,” Perimedes replied. “We want to reach our own homelands. Thrace, Greece, Dalmatia.”

“Those lands are part of the republic,” Agron replied with a frown. “You risk freedom again.”

“We risk lives if we stay to starve in northern colds,” Perimeds gave back sharply. “We do not want to travel further north.”

“It is not for me to stop you,” Agron said calmly, which was the truth. “Spartacus meant to let our people scatter to the winds, those were his own words. You are free to make your own choice.”

Perimedes faltered a bit, as he seemed to have expected resistance. Then he nodded.

“Gratitude then, for everything you and yours have done.”

Agron nodded. “May Rome not lay greedy hands on you again.”

Perimedes nodded again. “May the gods be merciful and see you through the winter.”

Agron estimated that about two hundred people followed Perimedes east now, aiming to round the foothills of the Alps and reach the Adriatic, and the lands they called home. Laeta met him on his way back to where he and those close to him had taken shelter, and shook her head.

“I hold doubt that any of them will make it.”

“A doubt I share,” Agron replied and shook his head as well. “Yet it is not my place to stop them. They stand free to make their choice, and they did.”

Laeta fell in beside him and slung her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “It shall be hard not to worry about them.”

“Strike them from mind and worry about those you care about,” Agron gave back. “Our own survival is built on brittle hopes as well, held together by gossamer.”

She sighed, but did not reply.

“Wish them luck on their way,” Agron said then, “and pray for them if you believe the gods will care. And while I do not stand glad they risk their freedom yet again, I cannot help but feel a certain relief about the dwindling of our numbers. I may sound cruel, but whatever shelter and supplies we may yet find has to be shared among fewer people now.”

“Not cruel, but pragmatic,” Laeta replied after a moment. “You speak nothing but the truth.”

They exchanged a look and found no need for further words. And so the refugees now turned north again, towards the Rhine, in hopes of finding means to survive.

Agron knew the rivers and lakes carried trout and other fish, and the forests were rich with game. But they were still hundreds of people, a difficult amount of mouths to feed under the best of circumstances. He had no idea how long the journey would take them, and how they would be able to find or build shelter and survive the winter, but they had no choice but carry on.

They would have to take each day as it came, challenge fate anew every morning, and hope the gods were merciful. Agron had his doubts towards the latter.

That evening after striking camp, Agron was approached by a middle-aged woman bearing a pannier, accompanied by a young man who seemed awfully intimidated by Agron’s presence. He was of fair skin and fair hair, and very soft-spoken. He seemed to be the woman’s servant, but as it turned out, he was her apprentice. She was an herb-woman and healer, and had heard of Agron’s injuries.

“Is there no one who has more need of your services?” Agron asked her as she knelt down next to him.

“You are one of the last few fighters that yet remain amongst us,” she said after shaking her head. “And the only man ever to be crucified who lived to tell the tale.”

“He is a difficult man to kill,” Laeta supplied with a smile.

Agron wished he wasn’t. Because if he wasn’t, then he would be united with Nasir in the afterlife. He was tempted to give her that answer even if he knew Laeta would give him a piece of her mind for that – not that he cared – but another voice forestalled him.

“He is the strongest warrior in the world!”

Agron very slowly turned his head to look at Randi, who looked up at him with large, solemn eyes.

“I... doubt that, little one,” he said slowly, and let the healer take one of his hands.

He looked at Laeta as the healer peeled his hands out of the dirty, threadbare bandage, and then at Damiro, and back at Randi. He wasn’t, not by far... but maybe, he might be strong enough.

And one day, he would embrace Nasir in the afterlife again.


	9. Chapter 9

Days passed by in a strange, almost dream-like haze. There was dancing and music, and feasting and drinking, and there was bathing and laughing and singing. Nasir partook only in what he had to, mostly staying where he had been commanded, his corner and his pillows. The Syrian prince.

He served only few customers; apparently most of the Romans’ tastes did not turn into the direction of what Nasir had to offer. Nasir couldn’t say he minded. But that also meant he spent hours in one place, unable to occupy either mind or body. He fought memories, mostly, of other feasts, raucous, loud and happy ones. Coarse, dirty songs about cocks and cunts. Naked men on tables, shaking their hips to make their cocks dangle to see who had the bigger balls.

The more Nasir fought those memories, the more persistent did they become. So he tried to focus on what was around him, elegant dances of women clad in white gauze, tambourine in hand and bells on their ankles. Sad songs about forlorn loves or men daring to fight the gods, accompanied by soft notes of lyre and flute.

More and more, Nasir wished to become Tiberius again. More and more, he tried to summon his indifference, his shields, his abilities to blank his mind. Sometimes he was successful, more often than not, he wasn’t. Every morning, when drawing lines of kohl around his eyes, he forced his mind to become empty, his body to become pliant. And every morning, he had to do it all over again, because in his dreams, he was Nasir. Nasir the warrior. Nasir, the rebel. Nasir, the lover of a man like no other.

Nasir did not want to vanish. Tiberius the submissive slave had been easily banished. Nasir was a fighter, and stubborn and strong. He refused to be put to rest.

Sestia was the only one who showed him that she cared about his suffering. Maybe the others did, to some degree, but none of the whores had any idea what Nasir’s past truly held. Nasir had no intention of telling them, of course, but sometimes he wanted to have a confidant so badly it hurt. He had never felt so isolated, not even as body slave with rank above the others.

But he had already lost count of the days. His bruises had faded, the scratches healed. A week perhaps, or more? And how many more were yet to come?

He was tempted to ask Sestia how long it had been since Tullia had brought him here one morning, as he scraped the hair of his face, but he did not do it. She smiled at him in the mirror as she braided his hair, and he tried to smile back. It was a weak smile, a tired smile, and Sestia’s own smile grew sad and wistful. He shrugged and shook his head, because there was nothing either of them could say.

So he applied kohl, put on his jewellery, and took his spear. Carved from soft, lightweight wood, willow or poplar, it was in no way suited to use as weapon as it would break almost as easy as straw. The tip was wood as well, painted gold, and Nasir hated it with a passion. It was another harsh and vivid reminder of what he had lost. He would never grasp a spear again, never use one again to draw roman blood.

“Come, my prince,” Sestia said and took his hand. There was no mockery in her voice, however, and her eyes were still soft with compassion.

Nasir closed his fingers around hers and nodded.

Again, like so many times before, he watched the dancers, listened to the musicians, and eyed the patrons, trying to gauge which ones might be interested in him. A small group of them were talking with Aulus, and one of them pointed into his direction. Nasir took a deep breath and tried to summon the blank mind of Tiberius again.

“Asheeran!” Aulus called and waved him over.

Nasir followed command, and once he had reached his master, he let the three men assess him.

“Yes, he might do,” one of them said and walked around Nasir, touching his back, shoulders and arms. “He certainly looks good.”

“But can he dance?” Another asked.

Aulus turned towards Nasir. “Can you?”

Nasir gripped his spear tighter, his hands acting without thinking. “I was never taught,” he replied.

Four pairs of eyes looked him up and down.

“Why the spear?” One of the men asked Aulus. “Can he wield it?”

“It is but a wooden toy,” Aulus said. “And he is but a whore.”

“But it was not always so.” The Roman, tall and dark-haired with sharp, brown eyes, walked around Nasir again. “He bears scars. And not ones a disobedient slave would have.”

Nasir tried to keep his breathing calm, but he could do nothing about his racing heart.

“Tell me, Syrian prince,” he said as he came to halt again in front of Nasir. “Do you know about handling weapons?”

Nasir cast a helpless look at his Dominus.

“Speak,” Aulus commanded.

“I was taught the use of sword and spear,” Nasir said then. “But I favoured the spear.”

“Is that why you have it, then?”

“It was Dominus’ decision.”

“Cannot dance, but can fight,” the Roman said thoughtfully and tapped his chin while Nasir stared straight ahead, willing his breathing slow. “It might do.”

Another Roman now looked at Nasir with narrowed eyes. “Show us then how you wield it.”

“Yes,” the dark-haired one added. “Fight invisible foes for us.”

Nasir wanted to scream at them; he didn’t want another set of living memories he could not fight. He did not want to revive Nasir the rebel warrior, not after fighting so hard to put him down. But Aulus gave him a stern look, and Nasir stepped back to have more space.

“It is badly balanced,” he said, almost despite himself, as he hefted the spear as he would have a weapon. “A toy.”

He didn’t want this. Gripping the spear so hard his knuckles turned wide Nasir planted his feet on the ground and closed his eyes. He felt Aulus’ glance on him, judging and hard. And he could almost hear him think ‘the whorehouse in Neapolis, Tiberius’ even without looking at him.

He took a deep breath, inhaled in a long huff, and assumed position.

He had done it hundreds of times, every day, every morning after leaving the bed. And of course, Agron’s side. Of course the gods saw fit to shit and piss on him even more, to tear more memories to light that he could not put to rest again.

Anger, grief, frustration, hate, despair. All that he had been trying so hard to suppress, now suddenly broke free again, with a single swing of his spear.

It was a dance, all right. Swing, side-step, forward step, swing, spin around. Nasir’s body remembered all those moves with an ease that scared him. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine Romans falling to his swipes, blood spurting from their veins and staining the white marble floors, their dying cries music in his ears...

“Enough!” Aulus clapped his hands, and Nasir stopped, only slightly out of breath.

“That will do nicely,” the dark-haired Roman said. “Send him tomorrow.”

“I will.” Aulus rubbed his hands and gestured at Nasir to retreat back into his corner. “Let us share wine, and discuss business.”

Settling back into his pillows, Nasir was fighting his tears, hating himself for his weakness. He was granted no respite. He was fighting memories, but fate kept tearing open all those wounds that he had believed could heal.

Sestia looked at him and caressed his chest. “Why did you not tell them you have no knowledge about fighting?” She whispered.

“Because he saw the scars and what it means.”

“So you were a warrior then? Not a house slave?” Her eyes went wide.

Nasir shook his head. “Please do not speak about this anymore.”

Sestia bit her lower lip, but kept silent. She nestled against him again, as she was commanded to do, and Nasir closed his eyes again.

* * *

A cart picked up Nasir and Sestia the next day, even before they had gotten their morning meal. They were told to pack everything they would need for their roles, and the cart drove them through the busy streets of Rome, towards an unknown destination.

“Have we been sold?” Sestia asked after peeking through the curtain, her curiosity having gotten the better of her.

“I know as little as you do,” Nasir replied. He felt no urge to set his eyes on Rome more than necessary. He remembered his arrival in this cursed city all too well.

Aulus had told them to make a good impression and deliver a good performance, so maybe they were just being rented out for a time. Nasir didn’t care either way. It didn’t make a difference where he was forced to whore himself out, and to whom.

They arrived at a villa, larger than any Nasir had ever seen, and filled with more lavish furniture and riches than he had been able to imagine. And all this, he knew, was built on the labour of slaves. All that wealth had been paid for with the blood, sweat and tears of slaves.

They were led to a room where they found a lot of other slaves, all of which were getting ready for the celebration, donning costumes and painting their bodies and faces, adorning themselves with jewellery and clothes so revealing they hardly deserved the name.

Nasir and Sestia got ready as well, and a slave girl who was barely more than a child led them through various airy hallways, curtains flowing in a breeze so soft to be felt, until they had reached a room that was even more lavishly decorated.

“This is where you will wait,” the slave girl told them and pointed towards a finely carved wooden chair at the far wall, over which a length of red fabric was draped. A large pillow rested on the ground next to it, and that was where Sestia took place after Nasir had sat down, the spear across his lap.

They were given food and wine, at least, while they waited, but not long after, the Dominus of the house found them to instruct them in their duties.

Throughout the feast, Nasir and Sestia were admired, groped and touched, but never ordered to bed with anyone. It seemed they were more a piece of decoration than anything else, but at one point when evening was approaching, Nasir was called to the main atrium, where a large crowd was gathered.

“What is this, Claudius?” One of the guests asked the man Nasir recognised as the one who had shown interest in him the day before.

“The Syrian prince,” Claudius replied. “A sight to behold.”

“I see only a painted slave,” the first man replied.

Claudius smiled at him, and then looked at Nasir. “Show them,” he said and gestured at Nasir’s spear.

Nasir had feared it might come to that, but it still stung. But there was no choice, so he walked to the centre of the atrium, took a deep breath to focus, and assumed position.

“Begin!” Claudius called.

Again, it was imagining killing Romans, making them scream and drown in their own blood. From one to the other, staining their exquisite togas and tunics with their own blood, making them scream and run in fear.

_Would that you stood a thousand men, your deaths by my hand worthy of Agron’s memory!_

He was gritting his teeth, and he lost all sense of time until Claudius told him to stop again. Breathing hard, Nasir went still again, his spear pointing at the ground, trying to banish the bloodlust from his gaze.

“Impressive!” A Roman woman called from the crowd. “Can he fight? Let him fight!”

Nasir tried to blank his mind and shut everything out as the commotion around him turned into lively discussions, and first when his fake name was called again he opened his eyes again.

A man, clearly a fighter and maybe the personal guard of Claudius or one of his guests, had been equipped with a wooden sword and shield and now gave him a look of disdain.

“Engage him, Syrian prince!” Claudius said.

Nasir met his eyes. “Apologies, Dominus,” he said slowly, “but this spear is too soft and brittle. It will break upon first contact with the other weapon.”

“Hmm.” Claudius waved at another slave and gave him orders in a low voice. And only a few moments later, the slave returned with a real spear, a real weapon, not a training weapon with blunted edge.

“You may draw blood,” Claudius said. “But do no lasting harm.”

“Yes, Dominus.” Nasir hefted the spear and assumed position opposite the other fighter, who clearly did not take his adversary serious.

It took only a handful of blows exchanges for Nasir’s opponent to land on his backside. Applause, laughter and sounds of admiration filled the room.

“Underestimating an opponent has been the downfall of many a man,” Claudius said and grinned at the beaten man. “Again.”

This time the other man was ready for a fight, and Nasir faced the challenge with grim determination. He knew that as a whore he had no pride left, but he felt he owed it to his fallen brothers to fight well.

It took longer this time, but eventually his adversary landed on his knees, the tip of the spear pointing at his throat.

“Again!” Claudius ordered.

The other fighter was getting angry now, frustrated at being bested by a whore, and he drove his attacks at Nasir furiously and with all his strength. Nasir however was faster, nimble on his feet, and even though this fight lasted even longer, the guard landed on the ground in front of him a third time.

He wanted to kill the man so bad his fingers hurt from gripping the spear so tight, and the other man must have seen it in his eyes, for he sneered as if daring him to kill him and forfeit his own life as well.

It was a tempting thought.

“Enough! Titus, on your feet. Disarm the prince.”

The moment was lost, and Nasir could see that now it was the other man’s turn to be tempted, to deal the killing blow in revenge for the humiliation.

The moment passed within a heartbeat, however, and Nasir was ordered back to his room.

People suddenly swarmed him. People wanted to touch him. To fuck him.

He was shattered when he and Sestia arrived back at Aulus’ villa, and that night, Nasir cautiously sliced a strip of cloth from his blanket. He wouldn’t need much to take his life.

* * *

His performance at the fest in Claudius’ villa had increased the popularity of the Syrian prince greatly, much to Aulus’ satisfaction. Nasir kept tearing off strips of linen, hiding them in his bag that held his few personal belongings.

But of course, fate was still shitting on him. Only a week after Claudius’ feast, Aulus called Nasir to him into his private chamber, seething with anger.

He grabbed a heap of linen from the table. Nasir’s heart almost stopped, an ice-cold shudder creeping down his spine.

“Explain.”

Nasir swallowed hard.

“An escape, is it not?” Aulus threw the strips of linen to the floor. “Did you intent to flee out of a window or take your life?”

“The latter, Dominus,” Nasir replied, seeing no sense in denying.

Aulus replied with a derisive hum. “Strike it from mind,” he said darkly. “Unless you want to cause suffering to those undeserving.”

Nasir had no idea what to reply, hiding his trembling fingers in his fists.

“Sestia’s fate is bound to yours,” Aulus went on. “If you escape, no matter where, the streets of Rome or the afterlife, she will end on the cross. And I personally will see to that she lives as long as possible, spending every agonizing moment in the knowledge that it was you who put her there.”

“Dominus...”

“Would you really willingly bring so much suffering to an innocent girl?” Aulus stepped closer, so close that Nasir could feel his breath on his face. “Or two?” His voice lowered into a dangerous snarl. “I planned on giving you a second consort. The boy Falacer, to be precise. And I shall still send him to your side, from tonight on. And he, too, is bound to you. So... think carefully about your steps towards perceived freedom.”

“Dominus.”

“Go. Duty awaits.”

“Yes, Dominus.”

As soon as Nasir had left Aulus’ study he headed towards the quarters in almost a run. Not to escape, but to check if his most precious possession was still there. Clearly, someone had noticed what he had been doing and given him away, had been through his things to present Aulus with the evidence.

The stone was still there; it had fallen out of the bag and rolled under the adjacent pallet, but it was still there. Nasir pressed it to his forehead for a moment, and stowed it away in his bag again. He should rid himself of it, get rid of another tie to his former life, another reminder of what he had lost.

He could not bring himself to do it.

Nasir took his place again, flanked by Sestia and the boy, trying to stop feeling anything whatsoever.


	10. Chapter 10

Travelling got increasingly easier the more distance the survivors brought between them and the Alps. The ground flattened more, and the forests around them thickened, which meant a higher abundance of food as well. 

Agron himself remembered a little from his younger years, gathering food as a boy together with his mother and aunt, and there were others, mostly those from Gallia where the climes were similar, who knew what was edible in the lands around them. 

It was autumn, but not too late for beechnuts and acorns, even if the latter were bitter and not really nourishing. Hawthorn and rowan berries were edible when cooked, and sloe berries and crab apple tasted sour and bitter but could be eaten when you were hungry enough. There were a lot of other plants where leaves, roots, or seeds were edible, and fish and game were abundant enough that they could keep themselves alive. They all were hungry most of the time, but saved from starvation for now. Sometimes they even came across a few late blackberries or elderberries on a sunny clearing, but those were given to the children. Cautious hope arose again as it seemed autumn was mild in these lands that year. Agron refused to hold his breath but didn’t voice his doubts, as sometimes, hope was the only thing that kept them going. 

The days had blurred and Agron couldn’t say how many had passed since they had crossed the mountains, and Laeta admitted that she had lost count as well. Also, despite the strain of their journey, Agron was recovering, if slowly. Matta, the healer, travelled with them for now and had a look at Agron’s hands every evening, which were healing surprisingly well considering the damage that had been done to them. They would never be again as they had been before, but would serve him well enough so he wouldn’t remain crippled for the rest of his life. 

Since Agron had never been even close to the Alps in his life before crossing them from the other side he had no idea how long they would have to travel until they would reach the Rhine valley, but more than a week had passed already. Their progress was steady, but slow. And that was exactly what worried Agron the most. 

“We cannot push the people any harder,” Laeta told him one evening as they huddled around their little fire. “Many have hardly the strength to keep going.”

Agron broke the stick he was toying with in half and threw the pieces into the fire. “We need to reach inhabitable lands,” he said heavily. “We need to be able to establish some sort of shelter before winter.”

“So you mean to sacrifice the weakest in our ranks for the stronger ones to survive?” Laeta crossed her arms, pulling her blanket around her shoulders.

“Lower fucking voice,” Agron hissed after a hasty glance towards the sleeping children. “If we do not push on, none of us will survive.” He looked at Laeta again, tired to the bones and balking at the thought of having to make a decision like that. “I do not know what to do. I have no plans to order the old ones to stay behind and starve.”

Laeta sighed and stared into the flames. “So the only thing that can save at least some of us is the cruellest thing to do. Something Spartacus would never have allowed to happen.”

“Do not pretend it already did,” Agron said through gritted teeth. “Or that I approve of it. Do you really think me that indifferent to the fates of our people?”

“Apologies.” Laeta looked up again. “I was just trying to think the way he did.”

“No one can,” Agron replied with a thin, bitter smile. “The mad fuck would doubtlessly find a way to do the impossible and save us all. But I...” He shook his head. “I am not Spartacus.”

After a moment, Laeta reached out and gently took one of his hands, closing her fingers around it with hardly any pressure. “You shoulder so much weight already,” she said softly. “No one could ask of you to do the impossible.”

Mildly confused by her gentleness, Agron allowed the touch. “But only doing the impossible can save us now.”

“Maybe,” Laeta replied with the ghost of a smile. “But you are not Spartacus.”

Agron stared at her for a moment, then shook his head and stared into the flames again. “I was never meant to be leader,” he said tonelessly. “How can I possibly think of trying to step into the man’s footsteps now?”

“You are all we have,” Laeta replied. 

“It is not enough,” Agron muttered and withdrew his hand again. 

“Agron...”

“I lost everyone I ever held dear,” Agron said, voice rough. “I could neither save my own brother nor the man I loved. I could not save any of my friends and brothers, and now those who rely on me drop dead left and right of our path. Tell me again why I should be the leader of this trek of the damned.”

“We are not damned because of you,” Laeta replied softly. “You are doing all you can. It is not your fault if it is not enough.”

Agron didn’t reply. How could it not be his fault? Spartacus should not have fallen; he would have saved these people. It should have been Agron in that cold, lonely grave on the mountainside. Spartacus would have found another solution than trying to decide if some of them should starve so others would make it, or all of them starved slowly in the hopes they would reach better conditions before they all perished. 

He spent the night at the fire staring into the flames, unable to find sleep or even rest. He had long since given up trying to pray and ask favours from the gods, but as he stared into the flames he tried to summon an image of Spartacus, asking him what he should do, begging for his aid, so the people who he had given his life for would not lose theirs. Yet his spirit did not provide Agron with an answer.

* * *

They got on their way with daybreak, and slowly, made their way up north again. The terrain was uneven, hills and slopes and valleys with rivers that were densely overgrown and hard to cross. On the hillside they passed mostly through forests of beech, like the halls of a temple to the forest gods, their mighty trunks like silver pillars, and their steps rustled in the thick layer of reddish leaves that covered the ground. And while going was easy, there was little else beside those trees as their foliage allowed hardly enough light to reach the ground for other plants, and so there was little food. 

They reached another valley after a few days more, the river broader and calmer than all those they had crossed before. It flowed west, towards the Rhine, skirting the southern edges of the steep hills covered in firs so dense and dark that the light never touched the ground anywhere but in clearings created by the death of one of the trees.

Yet along the river, like a ribbon following its bank, was a neat, stone-flagged road. A roman road, and it looked fairly new.

Agron had occasionally had dealings with the man who now stepped to his side, a Gaul named Reovalis, and while he couldn’t say he liked him, Agron had done his best to get along with him even if he was a shit-eating Gaul. Such things had little place in their precarious situation, and Agron braced himself and summoned patience when he was approached. 

“The road will lead us to the Rhine in but a few days,” Reovalis said as he stepped to Agron’s side.

Agron nodded, his eyes following the road westward. 

“Should we not follow it?”

“A roman road?” Agron looked down at him, arms still crossed. “We would be running right back into their arms if we do that.”

“Just a few days,” the Gaul replied. “We can travel so much faster. We all yearn to reach our destination.”

Yet Agron was no longer sure of their destination. He had meant to reach the valley of the Rhine, the milder climes and fertile grounds, but the new road he was looking at told him more than he cared to know. Romans didn’t build roads for the fun of it. 

“We have to face it,” Reovalis went on. “Even here, north of the Alps, there is no avoiding the Romans, unless we flee yet further north and west into the lands of the Goths, and I doubt we will last that long. If the Goths don’t eliminate us upon getting close to their lands.”

“True,” Agron replied slowly. “But the Rhine-”

“Was the Rhine not where you meant us to go?” Reovalis snarled at him, arms akimbo. 

“It was,” Agron gave back, trying not to punch the Gaul’s ugly visage. “But the Romans-”

“The Romans are everywhere!” Reovalis snapped. “We all yearn to see us to homeland soil and peace!”

“Is there peace?” Agron asked him sharply. “Is there peace in the Rhine valley where the Romans have built their cities?”

“Did you not know that beforehand?”

“I did,” Agron said heavily. “But it seems like they have been breeding and extending their greedy hands further than I imagined.”

Reovalis spat out on the ground before him, yet not into Agron’s direction. His reputation about being easily provoked, especially by Gauls, was well known. 

“So what would you have us do? Hide in the forest like animals until we eat each other because there is nothing left? The Rhine valley is our only chance of survival.”

“It is also the surest way of ending up in the clutches of slavery again,” Agron said and sighed. 

“So what will you do?”

Agron turned towards the Gaul, gritting his teeth. “What will I do? Make a decision between leading our people back into slavery or into death? Is that what you would have me do?”

The Gaul faltered and took a step back, staring down the road to the west. “There are vast expanses of Gallia where the Romans have not yet taken hold,” he said. 

“So should we cross through the valley where Romans are as thick as fleas on a dog to find a place in Gallia to settle, then?” Agron asked, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. 

“Better than starving to death in these forests,” Reovalis snarled back.

Agron’s patience was beginning to wear out. “We will never make it to Gallia, you fool!”

“We will starve to death here for sure, not that you care about anything but these precious lands east of the Rhine, you shit!”

Agron curled his hands into fists without thinking, but his growl of anger turned into a hiss of pain before he could fully close them. 

“I will not stop you from going to your own doom, you shit-eating Gaul,” Agron growled at him. “You are free to make your choice. I am no Roman general who forces his people to fall in line no matter what.”

Reovalis spat out again before spinning around, and Agron was ready to risk the healing process of his hands and go after him, if it had not been for Laeta’s hand on his arm. His hands itched to turn into fists but were not able to, so he had to content himself to mutter a few very choice curses that left the children stare at him with huge eyes. 

“Fucking Gauls,” he then added for good measure, as they watched how Reovalis gathered people around him, yelling at them that he was ready to head for the Rhine and survival instead of marching into starvation. 

Agron had to face the fact that the Gaul was not entirely wrong, but the Rhine valley was no longer an option. The roman road before them was more than proof enough how densely populated these lands were now by Romans. 

He had wanted to avoid it, but now he found there was no other chance for them than to head back right into his own homelands. Unwilling to face the annihilation of his clan and village he had hoped the Rhine himself would provide for them, but at least in those lands Roman settlements were sparse. It was true that they could never truly be free of the republic wherever they went, but his own lands were still safer than the Rhine valley itself. 

There was a choice. A bad choice, a choice between a rock and a hard place, but he could only do what he felt was right, what gave them all the greater chance at survival. So he climbed the small rise to stand next to the Gaul and raised his voice as well. 

“I am for the valley of the Nicarus!” He yelled. “There are fertile lands and rich forests, and fewer Romans! I do not deny that the journey will continue to be hard, but I see better chance for us once we are there!”

It took them more than a few hours, but at one point in the afternoon, when the sun was already hanging low, Reovalis took his leave, together with those people from Gallia and Iberia and a few others who believed their chances for survival were better if they headed west. Another group, the smaller one, stayed with Agron to follow him, but Agron felt his heart ache as he watched the others head down the roman road towards the Rhine. 

“Do they have a chance?” Laeta asked him in a low voice. 

“I doubt it,” he replied. “It makes my heart ache and it makes me angry. A lot of good men and women sacrificed everything so they could gain freedom, and they throw it away like this.”

“Do we stand better?”

Agron looked down at her. “I would not have let them go if I did not believe it so,” he said. “The fact remains that we cannot travel much longer in either direction, so I see the Nicarus valley as our only chance.”

“Then lead the way,” Laeta said to him after touching his arm. “We will not give up.”

Agron nodded, and for a moment, pulled Damiro close and rested his other hand on Randi’s head before turning away from those he believed doomed. Not much more than a hundred and fifty people were left now who followed Agron towards the lands of his birth, and had he any faith to spare, he would have prayed for them.


	11. Chapter 11

Nasir had hoped that his failed attempt at escaping this life would finally put his resistance to rest and let Tiberius win, but the contrary had been the case. 

Each day was worse than the one before. He could hardly sleep or eat, and Aulus complained about how it blemished his appearance. Not that Nasir cared much, but what could he do? He could force himself to eat, but he couldn’t force himself to sleep. 

He also rebuffed Sestia’s affections and her attempts at comforting him more and more, until she finally gave up and just took her place at his side every morning, to turn away from him in silence when they took to bed. It suited Nasir fine. He suspected that it had been Sestia who had given him away, as she was the one closest to him and was sharing his bed. 

Yet after his performance as Syrian prince word had gotten around, and it was only a week after that performance that Nasir was rented for another celebration in the house of a wealthy patrician. 

After several trained fighters had ended up on their backs, one of the patricians stepped forward and took Nasir’s spear, but had his eyes firmly on his face. 

“What is your story, Syrian prince? Your true story. Your true name.”

“I am called Tiberius,” Nasir replied. The name tasted bitter on his tongue. “I was guard in a rich Syrian merchant’s household. I fell in love with the wrong man, a Roman soldier, but he loved me too, so one night I escaped and we fled to Roman shores. We marched with Crassus against the rebels.” Nasir gritted his teeth for a moment. “I was forced into followers’ camp. He went to battle and did not return.”  
“And Aulus got hold of you through his whores,” the patrician concluded.  
“Yes, Dominus.”  
“Tragic.” He might have commented on the death of a sparrow. 

With that he turned away, and Nasir was returned to his pillows and the company of Sestia and the boy. 

“Aulus should sell him to Belisarius. Syrian Prince.” A derogatory snort. “He would be of better use there.”

Nasir perked up his ears.

“Belisarius?” The other voice sounded familiar, it was the man who had asked Nasir about his story. “The lanista?”  
“Look at him.” 

The two Romans had reached Nasir and his company again. 

“He is wasted on a whorehouse.”  
“If it was me,” the other said slowly, “I would probably have done so already.”

Nasir gritted his teeth again. Oh, how he would embrace that fate. How he would embrace the blood and glory of the arena. Take to the sands, and spill blood, worthy of Agron’s memory, and that of all the others. And find his death there, in the arena, wash away the shame with blood, blood of others and his own, so he could look Agron in the eyes again at the shores of the afterlife. 

He was sure though that Aulus would never do that. He made a fair amount of money with renting him out to the wealthiest in the city. 

He felt Sestia’s eyes on him. 

“You would not prefer the grime and paltriness of a ludus and the pain and blood of the arena to the life in comfort here?”  
“I would,” Nasir replied flatly without looking at her. “I would fucking embrace it.”

Sestia tensed, but didn’t reply. She had never known freedom, had never felt the taste of it, and the power of having a choice. She was like Chadara, purposelessly adrift without a place given to her by someone else. 

They did not speak anymore that day, and not after returning to Aulus either. Aulus remarked several times in the following days how ridiculous the notion was of selling his prince to a ludus, probably so Nasir would strike it from his mind for good. It didn’t surprise Nasir, on the contrary. 

Sestia no longer offered comfort, and Nasir no longer valued her company. They played their part because they had to, and Nasir began to contemplate escape again. Spartacus would surely not have approved of this course of action that would pay for his freedom with her life, but Spartacus wasn’t the one fucked in the ass against his will every single day. 

But no glimpse of a chance to escape presented itself, not even on the occasions he left the brothel to attend celebrations, the frequency of which increased over time. He found himself at villas for various reasons all over Rome, and at this very day, one of the patricians held his son’s coming-of-age celebration. 

The one who had stepped over the threshold from boy to man was wearing the toga with the air of someone who was not used to its weight but extremely proud of it. A handsome young man, who looked older than his fifteen years, with thick and dark, slightly curly hair and bright blue eyes that promised a sharp mind with growing maturity. Or so were the words of his father, and everyone else who congratulated him. 

Nasir and Sestia were the father’s special gift for his son on this glorious day. 

The two of them had been settled in a room, with white curtains waving in the breeze, and incense sweetening the air. He knew what would have to happen, but he was more than surprised by the way the boy looked at him. A man, yes, technically, but still years younger than Nasir who was a young man himself. He entered the chamber where Nasir and Sestia were residing, and stopped dead in his tracks, with widening eyes. But his eyes were not on the beauty of Sestia, her silken skin and golden hair, but on Nasir. 

After a moment of staring at him in what could only be described as awe, he waved a hand in dismissal at Sestia and the boy. “Leave us,” he whisperd.  
“Dominus,” Sestia said and took Falacer’s hand. “Where to?”  
“Find another slave,” the boy turned man replied without taking his eyes off Nasir. “Kitchen, or wherever they see fit.”  
“Dominus.”

Nasir watched the Roman in mild interest. He knew from Aulus that his father wanted to bestow him with a gift like Nasir and Sestia to grow up yet more, become a man in more than just one sense. So far, Nasir had not been confronted with a virgin of either gender, and he was a bit at a loss because he had only known pain and force, from the first time ever someone had laid hand upon him. Until Agron had come into his life. 

Yet Agron’s memory did not have a place here. Nasir himself did not have a place here. So he forced himself to become Tiberius yet again, to give the young man what he desired, and what everyone else expected of him. 

After the act, fast and clumsy and almost painful for Nasir though he had pretended nothing but pleasure, the young Roman lay on his back next to Nasir, naked, sweating and out of breath, but smiling an angelic little smile. 

“I did not know it would feel like this,” he whispered.   
“It is my pleasure to satisfy you, Dominus,” Nasir said dutifully in a soft voice.  
“Oh…” The Roman boy turned onto his side. “Please do not call me that.”  
“Then what should I call you?”  
“Flavius.” The smile softened. “Please call me Flavius.”

Nasir nodded, and stayed still as Flavius reached out to toy with a strand of his hair. 

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “My prince…”

Having no idea what to reply and how to react to that admiration that seemed slightly out of place, Nasir remained silent and just tried to smile. 

“Asheeran,” Flavius said dreamily. “I mean… I know you are no prince,” he continued with a smile. “But you look like one. And you feel like one. Oh…” He sighed. “I did not know it would feel like this.”  
“Would you like to feel it again?” 

Again, Nasir spoke only out of duty, because Aulus had not needed to do more than threaten with punishments that left no visible marks. Nasir had made his own experiences with punishments like that, and he knew what awaited him. But it seemed as if the boy could not discern between pleasure and duty. He seemed to have forgotten Nasir was a gift and nothing but a rented whore. 

“Oh…” Flavius bit his lower lip with wide eyes. “But… I want to… I want to please you too! Please… please, my prince, teach me how to please you.”  
“Tonight is not about me,” Nasir replied, barely keeping the disgust out of his voice. “It is about you.”

He did what he could to dispel whatever mood the boy was in, because the last thing he wanted was a fucking Roman trying to make him feel wanted and loved. There was only one person, in this world or the next, who had ever done that, and no one would take that place in Nasir’s memories. 

Nasir was skilled as a whore however, from his time in Aulus’ possession and all the years before Spartacus, so he was able to make the boy forget his own name before the night was over. 

Sestia gave him curious looks on their way back in the cart, but Nasir said nothing. He was beat, and wanted a bath, and rest. Yet sleep did not come, almost as expected. He spent his time fighting memories and trying to make a plan for escape, but he was too tired for both and spent a dreadful night between being haunted by memories and tearing at invisible chains that did not let him go.

* * *

It didn’t surprise Nasir in the slightest that a few days later, Flavius appeared in Aulus’ villa looking for the Syrian prince. Aulus was visibly trying to stop himself from rubbing his hands in greed as he waved Nasir and Sestia over, but was a bit puzzled when Flavius impatiently dismissed Sestia away again. 

Nasir knew his duty and knew how to go about it, which was make the boy feel like a god among mortals and give every impression of enjoying himself, as if there was nothing in this world he would rather do. 

He briefly wondered if the boy was naïve or dumb or both, as he seemed not to grasp the difference between a lover and a bought whore. He had no other explanation why Flavius treated him like that after their fuck, all soft words and tender looks. 

Flavius left Nasir a gift, a golden bracelet inlaid with polished glass, a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. It might have been a dented trinket of dirty brass for all that he cared, but Nasir acted as if it was the greatest gift in the world. Flavius made his farewell with a soft kiss, and Nasir had to resist the urge to wipe his mouth. 

“He seems to be very fond of you,” Sestia remarked as Nasir took his place again.   
“He acts like a lovesick fool,” Nasir whispered. “I do not know what to make of this.”  
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Sestia replied. “Favourite whores are worth a lot to them. You will be showered in gifts.” She popped a grape into her mouth. “Until they tire of you, of course. But until then, Aulus will keep you free of duty as much as he can so you will be ready for him when he comes.”

That was the first pleasant prospect in quite a while. 

Flavius kept coming, and he brought a small gift every single time. Nasir kept all those trinkets on Aulus’ order, because Flavius would care about them and seeing them on Nasir’s form the next time. If he had been allowed to sell them, Nasir could have purchased his freedom from Aulus himself, if Aulus would ever have any inclination to be parted from his Syrian prince, that is. 

Sestia’s words proved true during the following weeks. Flavius favoured the Syrian prince so much that he paid Aulus more money in a week than Aulus could have earned through him otherwise in a month. Nasir had little to do during that time, so there would be no risk of Flavius having to wait for his favoured whore. 

And still, Flavius treated Nasir as if the latter was something much more precious than a whore. But it saved Nasir from having to serve other customers, so that suited him fine.

* * *

The Syrian prince was in high demand however, and Aulus had to deny more patricians his services than he liked. Nasir attended two more feasts in patrician villas until Flavius heard of it, and with the wrath of a god the young man told Aulus that whatever the offered price was, he would double it to keep Nasir away from other hands. Aulus was a bit torn, but his mind was on the mountains of dinari he could make, so he agreed. According to Aulus, Flavius’ family was the only one in Rome whose wealth could rival that of Crassus, and it was obvious that Aulus intended to milk that wealth like a peasant would a fat dairy cow. But Nasir still did his ‘spear dance’, a term coined by Aulus, for feasts in the villa of Aulus himself.

The next major conflict however arose before too long. 

Nasir was to entertain Romans at another feast, but Flavius’ coins kept him save from groping hands, for now. Yet Nasir knew it was only a question of time before the blazing infatuation would burn itself out. 

Having finished his performance Nasir settled back into his pillows, and watched in mild interest as Aulus was approached by a man Nasir didn’t know. He was still in Flavius’ favour, so it didn’t worry him too much. Until Aulus and the other man started talking. 

“He is wasted on a whorehouse, Aulus.”  
“So everyone tells me,” Aulus replied tersely. “But he earns me a fortune, so why would that concern me? To me, he is perfectly suited.”  
“You know well what I mean.”  
“I do, dear Belisarius, but he is not for sale.”

Belisarius. Nasir had heard the name before. During another celebration, after another dance, someone had mentioned Belisarius. A lanista. A lanista had shown his interest in Nasir, but Aulus would never sell him. He would have no interest to accept a single sum and let someone else turn Nasir’s blood into money. 

The way in which Belisarius left suggested that the last word in this affair was not yet spoken, but Nasir knew that no sum was high enough for Aulus to willingly part from him. For a moment there had been a tiny sliver of hope, but Nasir could not allow it to grow. 

It was the very next day that Flavius appeared again, and he seemed both distraught and angry. Nasir wasn’t surprised to learn that Flavius had heard of Belisarius’ offer, and despite Aulus ensuring him he had no intention to sell the prince, Flavius would not calm down for quite a while. 

Flavius was still foaming when he and Nasir were alone in a chamber, courtesy of Aulus and free of charge that day. 

“He cannot sell you to a ludus,” Flavius said, seemingly having no intention to take to bed, or even get undressed. “He cannot!”  
Nasir didn’t know what to reply, so he sat down cross-legged on the bed.   
“He cannot!” Flavius turned his back to Nasir and buried his fingers into his hair. “Not the arena! Not the sands! Not you!”  
“It is not for me to decide,” Nasir replied, wishing with every fibre of his being it were otherwise.   
“No...” Flavius dropped his hands and faced Nasir again. “No,” he whispered. “It is not.”

He left again shortly after, without having touched Nasir other than a kiss. Nasir slept fitfully that night, the prospect of becoming a gladiator and finding his end upon the sands dangling there just out of his reach to mock and taunt him. 

It was only two days later that Aulus approached Nasir after the morning meal. He shook his head and sighed. 

“A man does what he must,” he said gravely. “And sometimes, he has to carefully weigh his options.” A small smile appeared on his face. “One thousand and five hundred dinars,” he said. “Gather your belongings, Syrian prince. Your wish comes true today, and you shall leave these walls, probably forever.”

Nasir did so, and made his farewell to Sestia and the others with nothing more but a curt nod. Yet he tried to dash every hope that it was Belisarius who had bought him. And he was proven right when he was leaving the cart with his bag. Anger rose in him, so hot that he had a hard time controlling his face. 

He had been here before. He knew who lived here, and it was not the lanista.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay I'm not dead. I'm sorry for this unbelievable long wait, but my brain has been all over the place in various fandoms these past months. I would like to promise you that I won't need as long for the next chapter, but what I can promise is that I won't abandon this.

Agron’s people had travelled two more days, following the river Nicarus north, when they reached a fork in the river on a cold and windy day that seemed to try and dash all the hope for survival that was left. The Nicarus continued north, and the other stream, smaller but faster, came from the east. And now they were faced with another choice: Continuing north into the broadening valley of the Nicarus River and the fertile soil on its banks, or following the smaller stream east trying to avoid even the proximity of Sumelocenna, a large Roman settlement to the north. 

They made camp that afternoon, between the streams, and Agron stared into the tiny fire in despair. The republic already stretched into the valley of the Nicarus from the north, where the Nicarus turned west to flow into the Rhine. They could survive on the fertile soils, but would they ever find peace there? To the east, there might be no Romans in the vicinity, but if there was a chance of survival was questionable. Yet running into Romans as they were would only mean slavery again. The Gauls had made their choice and taken their risks as they had seen fit, and now Agron and his people had to make the same decision. Or rather, Agron had to make it, as all the others looked to him as their leader. 

He saw a lot of people pray to the gods that evening. They hadn’t eaten much for so many days that even the handful of children still alive had stopped complaining about hunger and just trotted on, now sitting grim and hopeless around the fires as the rest of them. They had buried a young woman and her infant son two days prior, and Agron was ready to march to Olympus himself and scream at the gods to finally have mercy on his people, as praying to them had no effect.

“The gods have stopped caring,” Agron muttered, his eyes on two women muttering silently into the fires with their eyes closed, as Laeta sat down beside him.  
“So it would seem,” she replied in a tired voice. “And yet, they pray.”  
“Praying will not fill their empty bellies,” Agron said darkly. “But...” Then he sighed. “If I believed the gods would care, I’d beg them on my knees to save these people.”

The little fire crackled and the flames danced, as if mocking their despair in their merriment. 

“I just had a thought,” Laeta said slowly and looked up. 

After a moment, Agron lifted his head with an inquisitive hum. 

“These are the lands of your people,” Laeta continued. “I do not know if... if it makes a difference. But maybe here, we should pray to the gods of your people too.”

Agron stared at her for a moment. And then he suddenly he remembered his mother, as vividly as if he was looking at her, sacrificing mead and milk to the small wooden statues at the end of the house. But why would they care about them, more than the Roman gods would? He asked Laeta as much, but she only shrugged. 

“I do not know if they do,” she said with a sad smile. “But I thought it cannot hurt to try.”

Agron could only agree, but memories of his childhood were faded; he had been focussed on his father and becoming a warrior, not on his mother’s household duties. But in the end, he took a few more branches of firewood and a burning one from their fire, and walked towards a low outcrop overlooking both rivers where he lit another small fire for himself. 

He had no mead and no milk to sacrifice, but he had a knife. His hands were still sore and aching, not fully healed yet, but he cut into his left palm anyway and let the blood drip into the fire, his hands as low above the flames as he could without burning himself. And for the first time in many years, he did not call upon Jupiter but on Wodan, the one-eyed, on Donar the Thunderer, on Frigga, Wodan’s wife, and on Freya, his sister. He begged them for council, begged them for strength so he could save his people. Yet the old gods of these lands did not answer him either. 

He did not know what he had expected. Their fate was in the hands of gods that did not seem to care, so why would they answer him?

Agron spent the rest of the night alone at his little fire, staring into the flames. They were all doomed. There was no hope left. Autumn was already well on its way and winter would soon be upon them. They would need a miracle to survive. 

He still had not left the fire, and hadn’t closed an eye for the whole night, when the sun began to rise again behind the crest on the other side of the valley that birthed the stream feeding into the Nicarus. Agron looked up into the grey twilight of dawn when he heard the hoarse cawing of ravens, and saw two of the black birds take to the air from an old tree not too far away. They flew east, their almost mournful cries vanishing into the silence of the early morning fog. 

Ravens were the birds of the One-eyed. 

Annihilation might loom either way, from slavery or starvation. And now Agron could decide that the ravens were a sign from the gods and follow them, or not. But suddenly it was the only bit of direction he had. 

“May the gods save us,” he muttered to himself as he got onto his feet, and then looked up. “I know those people think they are lost without me as their leader, but they will make it, they are strong. I would gladly lay my life down for theirs.”

With that he left his fire that had died at one point before dawn, and informed the others that they were to head east, following the nameless stream away from the Nicarus.

The stream was rich with trout, but it was still too little to feed them all. That evening hunters managed to shoot a roe deer, but that too was gone faster than you could look. The valley broadened, the slopes on the far side covered with forests that promised more game, but they had to cross the valley floor first, and for that, they had to cross the stream somehow. It was flowing fast, and Agron did not want to risk losing people that way.

With noon the day after, the stream widened into a small lake, and as they passed it the weather cleared up. The clouds that had been threatening with rain all morning dispersed again, having obviously changed their mind. 

One of the other former slaves stepped to Agron’s side. “This is fertile soil,” he said. “We could do worse than trying to settle in this valley.”  
Agron nodded slowly. “But is this the right place for a settlement? Wood is scarce here. Should we not try and get closer to the forest?”  
“We should,” the other man replied. “But we should not wait too long with building shelter.”  
“I know.” Agron shook his head. “Then let us go.”

Small birds rose from high grass and bushes as they passed, but no matter how many times Agron and Laeta told the children that it was too late in the year for nests, the two still kept looking for eggs, rousing more birds in the process. 

But as they made camp that evening, Agron noticed that the two were eating something out of Damiro’s hands. 

“What is this?” Agron hurried over, concerned that they were eating something unwholesome. “What are you eating?”  
“Grains,” Randi said and held out a few to Agron. “See?”

Grains. Agron picked up a few and his eyes widened. 

Wheat...?

“Where did you find that?”

Randi pointed to the north-east, and Agron set of in a jog. He found it soon enough: the remnants of a field. Most of the stalks were dead, the grain they had carried spilled on the ground and of no use anymore but to give birth to next year’s crop. Some still carried ears of grain, but they were few and far between. Weeds and nettles were trying to overgrow everything.

Agron headed back to the camp to find the man who had spoken to him earlier, a farmer to his dominus before Spartacus had set him free. 

“These lands have been under the plough,” he said to Agron and knelt down to pick up a handful of dirt with grains. “But the harvest has never been brought in.” He straightened up and let his eyes roam across the field, or what had been a field once. “From what I can say this would have been last year’s harvest, and left to its own device the wheat sowed itself in the autumn, and again this year.”  
“But what does that mean?” Agron asked.  
“It means,” the other replied and looked up at him, “that last spring this wheat had been sown but was not harvested. It means a settlement nearby, but there is no way of telling what happened to the people that they did not bring in their harvest last summer.”

Staring across the valley and further east, along the stream, Agron took a deep breath. “Keep this to yourself,” he said. “Find Laeta and have her send Ceros and Parsos to me.”

The brothers Ceros and Parsos were two of the few left in their ranks who knew how to handle weapons, and also how to hunt. They came with their bows and spears, and the three of them followed the stream east and north. 

Their progress was aided by the moon, more than half full that night, but all they encountered were more abandoned fields. 

They found the settlement shortly before dawn: a small village surrounded by a palisade, but no smoke rose from any of the houses. They approached slowly, but the gate in the palisade was not broken, it just stood open as if whoever had lived there would return any moment. There was no sign of life anywhere near, no sounds or sights of people or livestock. 

The village lay silent, the houses barren and empty, but strangely enough, most of them had still most furniture left. What was gone were clothes and food, but it seemed that the people who had here had left in haste and had taken only the most necessary with them. 

“What happened here?” Ceros asked as he pushed open the door of another house. There was a large leather bag lying next to the door, and as he opened it he found some items of crockery, and wooden bowls and cups. 

The answer became clear when Agron walked around yet another house – the house of the village’s blacksmith, to judge by the cold and abandoned forge right next to it – and found the door and shutters nailed shut from the outside. Three more houses in this corner of the village looked the same, and with combined efforts the three men managed to pry one of the shutters open. Parsos, the slimmest of them, slipped inside, and fell silent.

“What is it, brother?” Ceros asked. “What do you see?”  
“Death,” Parsos replied in a heavy voice. “Corpses by the door. The whole family died in here, as it seems.”  
“A plague,” Agron whispered. “They fled from a plague...”  
“Parsos!” Ceros hammered against the door. “Get out of there!”  
“The people have been dead for over a year,” Agron said. “There is no disease left here.”

Parsos climbed out of the window again and shook his head. “Adults and children,” he said. “They all perished.” He exhaled forcefully, trying to clear the faint stench of death from his nostrils that still lingered in the house. “Now we know why the people left in such haste.”  
“They took what they could carry and fled from the plague,” Agron said slowly. “And buried the sick ones alive so they could not spread the disease.”

The three men looked around in silence. There were houses, and even workshops were some tools were left, and most likely a few farmsteads outside the walls. They had passed an apple orchard, and there was the river, and the lake. Firewood was still stacked behind every house. 

“Their misfortune is now our salvation,” Parsos said after a long silence, speaking out loud what they were all thinking. 

Agron could have cried in gratitude. He could hardly fathom it: They were saved. 

This could not be only a stroke of luck. The gods themselves had led them onto this path, had shown Agron the way with Wodan’s ravens. Agron had believed the gods had abandoned them, and he had been right. But there were other gods, gods who cared and who had listened to his desperate prayers. And if they would demand his life now as payment, he would give it with a smile. 

“Go,” he said huskily. “See if you can find game, so we have something to eat. I will fetch the others.”  
“A few pieces of game will not feed us all,” Ceros said slowly.  
“No,” Agron replied. “No, they will not. But we have to do what we can. Hunting can see us through the winter, if it is not only the two of you who do the hunting. The gods have blessed us and our efforts, and they will aid us if we prove ourselves worthy of their blessings.” He looked at the other two men and inhaled deeply. “We fight. And we pray. The gods will not simply send salvation if we pray for it, but they can give us strength and endurance, so we can save us ourselves.”

The two hunters nodded solemnly, and the three men parted ways at the gates of the small village. Agron headed back into the direction they had come from, and the two others towards the eastern ridges and the forest. There had to be a bridge somewhere too. 

Agro gave in to no illusion that it would be easy, and he knew that not all of them might survive the coming winter. But now they had a chance, a real chance, to win the fight for survival. 

Laeta got up when he approached the camp again shortly after dusk, tired and exhausted but smiling. She hurried towards him, her eyes widening when she saw his face. 

“The gods are smiling at us again,” he said to her and rested his hands on her shoulders. “We have reached safety at last.”

They embraced without thinking, and as Laeta held on to him, Agron looked past her into the darkness and at the small fires casting little orange pools of light. 

“We are home.”


	13. Chapter 13

Flavius’ father had an overseer for his slaves, an unpleasant man of the kind who liked to abuse his power over the other slave despite being a slave as well. Nasir had had dealings with him before, and would have wiped the oily grin off his face with pleasure. But Nasir had arrived with two guards, so Nasir stared ahead and tried to calm his breathing. He could feel the overseer’s eyes on him, and he knew that if he were not Flavius’ exclusive property, he would have had reason to fear him.

In the time he had stood here waiting for his new dominus to acknowledge his arrival, a thought occurred to him: He might have finally a chance to escape. He had been locked away in Aulus’ brothel, but being a pet to a spoiled roman boy, he might not be as closely watched. He would be a treasured pet, after all, so what reason would any slave have to flee from such a privileged position? He himself had not wanted to give up such a position, back then, a lifetime ago.

_And what do you propose we do with this wild little dog?_

Nasir kept his head low, but could have screamed in frustration and anger when the overseer arrived before Flavius, and he was now half led, half dragged, into a room in the basement of the house. A lit brazier was waiting there, and a branding iron that was already glowing.

Despite having been a small child, Nasir could still vividly remember the day he had been branded after having been shorn of his hair. He remembered the pain, and how long it had taken to stop hurting. But at least that brand was invisible now, whereas the one he was about to receive would undoubtedly and forever mark him as slave.

Nasir closed his eyes when the overseer grabbed his forearm with one hand and told the guards to hold him, and he gritted his teeth when the overseer took the branding iron out of the flames.

He tried to prepare himself for the pain, but at that moment everyone looked up when they heard the footfall of someone running.

“Halt!”

Flavius himself entered the room in a run, as Nasir could already feel the heat of the glowing iron. The overseer obviously enjoyed taking his time to make this as unpleasant as possible.

“Cease!”

The heat vanished as the overseer lowered the branding iron. “Dominus?”  
“I will not have that one’s skin marred by brand or mark,” Flavius said harshly. “And I remember telling you as much.”  
“It must have slipped my mind, Dominus,” the overseer said, gritting his teeth.  
Flavius slapped his face without missing a beat. “You will have a brand on your face if you ever forget my direct orders again,” he snarled.  
“Apologies, Dominus,” the overseer said, doing his best to look contrite.

Yet in his eyes Nasir could already see the beginnings of a burning hate, and knew that he had to avoid this man at all cost. Just one reason more to come up with a plan for escape as fast as possible.

And so, instead of a mark or brand, Nasir ended up with a collar again, after all those years that it had been a distant memory. But it was still better than a brand as it would be easy to get rid of.

Following his new dominus, Nasir found himself in Flavius’ personal chambers, large and lavishly decorated as befitting the firstborn son of a wealthy, important man. There was a small chamber barely large enough for a bed and a small trunk, directly adjacent to Flavius’ bedchamber, where Nasir would have to spend his nights from now on. But it had no lock on the door, at least.

After Nasir had put his meagre belongings away in the trunk Flavius called for another slave, and gestured at Nasir to follow him.

“See him to a bath,” he said to the other slave, “and have food brought here.”  
“Yes, Dominus.”  
“And see Canutia to properly clothe him.”  
“Yes, Dominus.”

The prospect of wearing something else than delicate gold chains and a translucent loincloth was enough to lift Nasir’s spirits again somewhat, together with the realisation that he was not to be branded at all. It seemed that this time his fate would be more bearable than he had feared. He gave in to no illusion that he was still not more than a whore and toy to satisfy the lust of his owner, but at least it was only one man, and he was clearly fond of him enough that he would care about his well-being.

The other slave confirmed Nasir’s thoughts about his time here as they walked.

“You could have done worse,” the other slave said to him. “Flavius has spoken highly of you lately. A lot.”  
“I do not stand surprised.” Nasir did not look at the other slave. It might be true, but he had heard enough of ‘you could have done worse’. “He seems very fond of me.”  
“He is absolutely besotted,” the other slave said with a smirk. “He demanded to always have fresh oil in his bedchamber.”  
“Something, at least,” Nasir remarked drily.

“What name do you go by when you are not the Syrian Prince?” The other slave asked after they had reached the bath. It spoke of the wealth of his new dominus that the slaves had one of their own.

_What name do you go by, little man? So I may properly mourn your passing._

“Tiberius.”

The other slave tilted his head. “A strange name for a Syrian.”

_Tiberius? You are far too dark to have such a fair roman name._

“I was a child when my first dominus bought me. I cannot recall another name.” Nasir stared straight ahead. Sometimes it was pointless to try and fight memories, and this was one of those moments.

_As you shall one day. If you hold any fucking sense._

“I see.” The other slave inclined his head. “My name is Aetios,” he said. “I am amanuensis to Flavius.”  
“Amanuensis?” Nasir asked. “So I really am to be his toy and naught more.”  
“So it would seem,” Aetios replied. “He did not give impression nor voice to any inclination to have me replaced with you.”  
“I would not take your place,” Nasir replied.  
“But we both know that you stand absent choice if he would demand it.”

Aetios seemed rather fatalistic about this concept. Nasir could only shrug, knowing he was right. If Flavius would replace him with Nasir, there was nothing either of them could do. Aetios left him to his bath without another word, but with no hard feelings, at least not in his eyes.

Nasir relished the bath, getting rid of kohl, and scented oils in his hair and on his skin. He had no idea if Flavius would demand he apply it again, but for now he felt cleaner than he had in a long time. Eventually Aetios returned with fresh clothes: subligaria and a tunic, both of fine linen, and another collar, of softer leather and embroidered with golden flowers. Still a whore, and still a toy, but a treasured one, at least.

Once back in Flavius’ chambers food awaited him, and as he took his first meal with his new dominus, Nasir already began to look for ways to get out of here. Flavius himself showed Nasir his father’s villa and the areas where he as a slave was allowed to wander, since he wasn’t a part of the workforce. It was quite obvious that Flavius couldn’t imagine Nasir would ever want to escape. During that first day alone Nasir could see several promising possibilities to get out of there.

He also spent his first night in Flavius’ bed. It was clear that Flavius tried his best to please Nasir in return, but no one could ever make him feel like Agron had done. Nasir pretended as best as he could, and apparently it was enough as Flavius seemed pleased with himself. It had not been pleasant but not overly unpleasant either, and Nasir had let it happen, well trained in having command over his body and in letting his mind stand empty.

In all it really could have been worse, but still Nasir would have preferred the grime of a ludus to any comfort this house had to offer. Because there was the one thing Flavius would never be able to give to him: To make him feel that he was a man again.

* * *

Nasir had believed his mind could not have gone any more numb, but he had been mistaken. While life in the brothel had been dull and uneventful, this life was mindbogglingly boring. He followed his young dominus around, at his side, beloved pet in all but name, and while that was better than whore it left him with nothing else to do other than the odd service here and then. That, and the occasional demonstration of his spear dance. He was a bored lapdog during the day and treasured whore at night.

After a week, Nasir was ready to bash his head in against the nearest wall. The poisonous glares of the overseer escaped him as little as the displeased glances of Flavius’ father, however. Maybe giving the overseer enough grief would result in a severe punishment, maybe crucifixion, maybe death, maybe a sacrifice for the crowd in the arena. Anything was better than this, and he had already believed that in the whorehouse.

What made things even worse was the fact that Flavius seemed to grow more and more fond of him with each passing day. Nasir might have laughed if he didn’t feel so bitter; Flavius was falling in love with his body slave and by the way he acted, he believed Nasir was feeling the same for him.

It all escalated during a dinner, a lavish affair with his father’s guest, when Flavius fed Nasir some treats while he was sitting at his dominus’ feet.

“A nice lapdog you have there, Flavius,” one of the guests remarked.  
Flavius shot him a thunderous glare.  
“Oh, he is something for the eye,” the guest went on. “Isn’t he, Garius?”  
“He is,” Garius, Flavius’ father replied, his gaze on his son, “and I am sure his ass is as pretty to look at as his face.  
“Father!” Flavius’ face was burning, but in anger, not in shame.  
“Do you fancy him, Tulius?” Garius went on.  
“Father, he is mine!”  
“He is a slave of my household, son.”  
“I bought him with my coin!”  
“Allowance coming from my coffers!” A vein in Garius’ temple began to throb. “And I think you are beginning to forget your place, and that of your slave there. Because that is all he is. A slave. And if I say he spends the night in Tullius’ bed, then that is what will happen!”

“That will not happen,” Flavius snarled. Then he looked at Nasir. “He is mine. And he doesn’t want to. Do you, Tiberius?”

Nasir gritted his teeth. He was trapped. No matter what he replied, one of the men holding his fate would be furious. But maybe risking the father’s wrath would more likely result in him getting out of here, in chains or otherwise.

He was just about to answer when another guest chimed in.

“Flavius, my dear boy, he is your slave. He will answer whatever you want to hear.”

Flavius snapped his mouth shut and stared at Nasir. Nasir tried to empty his face of all feelings.

“Or did you really think your little man returns your affections?”

Now Flavius’ head flew around and he stared at the man with wide eyes. His confusion turned to fury in an instant.

“Father, do I need to be insulted by him at your table?”  
“I see no insult,” his father replied drily. “I have questioned your feelings for your boy for a while now.”  
Flavius straightened up. “Am I the only man in Rome then who has a favourite slave?”  
“No, and surely not the only man who thinks he can change the world for him and his... favourite pet.”

Gritting his teeth, Flavius snorted through his nose and then emptied his cup. He didn’t say a word until the meal was over and he was allowed to withdraw into his chambers.

Once there, he embraced Nasir and pulled him tight.

“I will not let you be forced into another man’s bed,” he said. “Never, Tiberius, do you hear me?”  
“I hear you.” But Nasir cared little about who got to fuck his ass. One unwanted cock was as bad as any other.

Flavius stepped back and rested a hand against Nasir’s cheek. “You are far too precious for that.”  
“I am but a slave,” Nasir replied.  
“You are much more than a slave,” Flavius gave back, his eyes widening. “Do you not see it?”  
“See what?” Nasir took a deep breath.

Maybe now, finally, all this could end.

“You do not see it?” Flavius asked, his face a mask of dismay and pain. “What I feel for you? What you mean to me?”  
“Is it not unseeming for a Roman patrician to feel such for his slave?”  
“You are no slave to me, Tiberius.” He caressed Nasir’s cheek with his fingers.  
“I will always stand a slave,” Nasir replied calmly.

Flavius dropped his hand, and his eyes widened. Nasir guessed that he remembered the words of his father’s guest, about him having to say whatever Flavius wanted to hear.

“Tiberius...” He whispered.

The silence hung heavy in the air.

Then Flavius turned away and fell onto his bed, and after a moment looked up at Nasir again. “Is it true, then? You hold no affection for me?  
Nasir shook his head.  
“But...” Flavius wiped a tear from his cheek... I thought... the way you... was it all a lie?”  
“I am your slave, Dominus,” Nasir replied. “A slave, and a whore. I have to do as my master says, as it pleases him.”

Flavius stared at him with such pain in his eyes that Nasir could almost feel sorry for him. Then Flavius lowered his eyes, and his head dropped forward. For a long moment he just sat there, and Nasir kept watching him. Would he be flogged? Chained? Crucified?

“Dominus,” he began, but even if he wanted what he was asking for, he still had to force his voice to stay calm. “I would beg of you the kindness of a quick death.”

Flavius head flew up, his eyes impossibly wide, and he shook his head so vehemently it made the tears drop from his chin. “No,” he whispered tonelessly. “No. You will not be executed.”

It was the last word Flavius said to him that night, and for the first time since his arrival, Nasir slept in his own cot. Flavius was silent and withdrawn the next day, avoided his father at all costs, and spent most of his time composing and receiving messages. Nasir was left mostly to his own devices and stared out of the window, watching the sparrows in the garden hop around and go about their business.

That night, as the villa had fallen silent, Flavius shook Nasir from his sleep. “Tiberius.”  
Nasir sat up. “Dominus?”  
“Come with me.”

Puzzled, Nasir followed him, towards the back entrance of the villa, the one usually used by the slaves and servants. A cart was waiting there for them and Flavius ushered Nasir inside. As soon as he had dropped the curtain, the cart started moving.

Flavius didn’t speak, and neither did Nasir.

Nasir couldn’t quite say how long the journey had taken them, but eventually the cart stopped again, and Nasir was surprised to smell sea air as he got out. Flavius followed him, carrying a large bundle.

“Put these on,” he said tonelessly.

Nasir took the bundle: a set of clothes of a simple man, a pair of solid caligae, and a cloak. A belt with a gladius, a pouch clinking with coin.

Nasir’s hands trembled as he buckled the belt.

Flavius wiped the back of his hand across his cheek again. “Tiberius...” He swallowed. “It was no lie. Not for me. But...” He shook his head. “I never wanted you to hate me. Maybe... maybe one day you can think of me and... not hate me.”

Nasir didn’t know what to reply.

“This ship,” Flavius said and pointed at a small merchant vessel docked only a few steps away, “will bring you to Syria. You are free.”

Utterly dumbstruck, as if hit by a lightning, Nasir didn’t even know what to feel. Was afraid it was all a cruel jest. Or that any moment, he would wake up from another torturous dream.

“Go,” Flavius whispered hoarsely. “Before I do something I will regret even more.”

It took Nasir a moment to unfreeze, then he nodded. “Gratitude, Dominus.”  
“I no longer stand your dominus,” Flavius rasped. “Go. Now.”

Nasir spun around and headed towards the ship. The gangplank was still down and as he boarded he was still somehow expecting this to be a dream, or for him to be immediately grabbed and chained again to be tossed below deck to be a galley slave.

Nothing of the sort happened. The gangplank was drawn in, the anchor was lifted, and as the winds tugged at the ship’s sails and she turned away from the pier, Nasir watched Flavius stand there next to the cart, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

At that moment he did feel sorry for him. Flavius’ heart was broken in two because he truly loved him, loved him enough to let him go. The young man might have been ignorant and naive, but he had afforded Nasir the best he had been able to offer. But his feelings had been sincere, and now he had given Nasir the greatest gift he could have gotten in this life. And for the first time, Nasir looked at a Roman and wished him well.

Nasir was still not able to wrap his head around what had happened even as the shore vanished out of sight with sunrise. He had hoped to find escape one day, but had always believed it would be death. Instead, he had been given freedom.

He was free.

Nasir turned away from the vanishing shoreline, and as the wind tossed a few strands of his hair around it also dried the tears on his face.


	14. Chapter 14

At first, there had been no joy, only tentative relief, as if none of the survivors could quite believe their luck. Agron couldn’t blame them; he himself still had a hard time believing that their ordeal was over. Or if not over, then at least much more bearable.

They had roofs over their heads and could light fires no matter the wind and the rain. They could sleep in peace behind a solid palisade. They had a real chance to survive the winter now, with firewood and shelter. All they needed now was food, and with the blessing the gods had given them, everyone was determined to prove themselves worthy. It was a slim chance, but it was better than no chance at all.

The time for foraging was over however, and the first night frosts had taken the last of the fruits and edible plants. There was no grain and no other crops, but there was game and fish. It wasn’t much, but it was so much more than before that hopefully, it could be enough.

“If only we could get our hands on some grain,” Laeta said one evening, after a scarce meal of venison and an unsatisfying porridge of acorns and beech nuts.  
“If only,” Agron replied and pulled the blanket up over the children so they were completely covered. “But the only place would be the Roman city, and we have no coin. Or hardly so.”  
Laeta sighed.  
“But even if we did,” Agron went on and sat down again, “how would we go about it? We are all slaves. All of us bear brand or mark. We simply cannot go anywhere near a Roman settlement.”  
“Not without disguise.”

Agron looked up very slowly. “And what would you disguise yourself as? Wealthy Roman domina?”  
“I would know how to play the part,” Laeta said with a wistful smile. “But it is of no use without the means to acquire what we need.”  
“And you would,” Agron said softly. “You would wager your life for these people.”  
“I would.” Laeta looked up from the fire. “Because they are my people, as much as yours.”

Agron reached out and took one of her hands with a smile. And since when had he become so fond of that Roman cunt? He smiled to himself, thinking back of the many times Laeta had been at his side, supportive and helpful. She really was one of them now.

“A brave woman you are,” Agron said. “And I would go with you.”

“Agron?”

Agron looked at the children, finding Damiro’s eyes wide open. “I thought you asleep.”  
“I...” Damiro sat up, and next to him, Randi sighed in her sleep. “Are you going to the Roman city?”  
Agron shook his head with a sad chuckle. “There is no use in going there. We have no means to buy anything we need.”  
“Nothing?”  
“Not enough, in any case. We do not get what we need with only a handful of dinari.”  
“You can buy a few things and sell them for more?”  
“Not like this,” Agron replied. “Sadly.”  
“But what if you bet? Then you can make a lot of money?”  
“It will not work like that, either. It rarely does. Bets go wrong more often than not.”

Damiro heaved a heavy sigh. “If only you could fight in the arena. You would earn mountains of gold.”  
“My days in the arena are over,” Agron said heavily. “Go back to sleep.”

But the thought didn’t leave Agron’s mind, not for the rest of the night and for the next few days either. In the end he caved in and gathered the few people closest to him, and the ones he thought most capable, to talk about that insane idea that had hatched in his sleepless mind.

“Insane is the exact word I would use,” Laeta said after Agron had finished. “Agron, you are out of your mind.”  
“I know.” Agron shrugged with a crooked grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “If anyone has a better idea how we can find the means to survive, then this is the moment to speak.”

Several worried looks were exchanged across the fire, but no one could offer any better advice.

“It is suicide,” Laeta said imploringly, touching Agron’s forearm. “You cannot possibly think that we can succeed.”  
Agron shrugged. “I said my part. I am willing to do what I must. But I cannot do so alone, I need some of you to help.”  
“And if we do not return?” Laeta clutched her threadbare shawl around her shoulders. “What then?”  
“Then they will starve without us,” Agron gave back. “If we stay then we can all starve together, is that what you prefer?”

Laeta pressed her lips together and shook her head, then lowered her eyes. She curled forward, her arms closing around her chest. Agron inhaled heavily through his nose, but a frown formed on his face as he watched her.

“Laeta? Are you in pain?”  
“Just... discomfort.” Laeta tried to smile. “I blame it on the hunger. I was never used to such hardship.”  
Agron narrowed his eyes. “None of us were made for this and yet, we prevailed. You prevailed. Although I admit you look paler than most.”  
Avoiding his eyes, Laeta shrugged. “I sleep fitfully these days.”

Not knowing what to reply Agron just sighed and shook his head, then stared into the fire with crossed arms.

“Agron,” Parsos said, leaning forward. “Your idea is madness, but then, madness was what got Spartacus further than any of us could ever have imagined. I stand with you.” He looked at his brother who nodded.  
“But what I fail to see,” Ceros added, “is how we can possibly fool them. Even if they would never expect a group of ragged escaped slaves disguise themselves as Romans, we still have to look the part.”

Agron nodded slowly. “We have to scrape together what we can, repair what fabric there is to spare. We have one attempt at this either way. But it just might work, gods willing.”

They discussed a few more details of their plan, mad enough to make Spartacus proud of them. And with the next morning, a few of the women gathered in front of the blacksmith’s house with all fabric and clothes the slaves had to spare.

Agron himself couldn’t offer any help or advice in the matter of clothing, but when he failed to spot Laeta among the women, he went to search for her. She was no longer in bed, and he eventually found her behind the forge, leaning over the dung heap and retching.

“Laeta!” He hurried to her side. “Fuck the gods, what ails you? Was it the porridge?”  
“It was,” Laeta muttered and straightened up. “I could not keep it down.”  
“Mashed acorns are not my favourite fair either,” Agron said, and mustered her face with worried eyes. “But there is little else.”  
“I will be fine,” Laeta replied. “Give me a moment.”

She tried her best to smile, but Agron kept watching her with hawk eyes for the rest of the day. He still had no explanation when and why he had become so fond of that woman, but now that he was, he made no secret out of it. And while it was nothing but the truth that she had led a sheltered life and had never known hunger or hardship, so far she had struck Agron as far stronger than he had given her credit for, the day he had helped her strike up her tent. Why she seemed so frail, all of a sudden, worried him more than he cared to admit.

When he heard the unmistakable sound of retching coming from behind the house the next morning, he was done worrying and went to fetch Matta, the herbwoman who had travelled with them.

Laeta refused her attention at first, insisting she was fine, but Agron glared at her for no more than the duration of three heartbeats before she relented.

Then he proceeded to pacing back and forth in front of the blacksmith’s house that had become his and Laeta’s dwelling. It felt forever to him until Matta emerged again.

“What is it?” He spun around when he heard her step into the doorframe. “Is it bad?”  
“Yes and no,” Matta replied, a strange smile on her face. “She is not sick, if that is your worry. But her condition is perilous, given the circumstances we find us in.”  
“Speak clearly,” Agron growled. “What is the matter with her?”  
“She is with child.”

Agron froze, and for a moment he felt as if someone could knock him out with a feather. And then he blurted out the very first thing that fell into his addled mind.

“It is not mine!”

Matta chuckled softly and stepped aside. Agron in turn took a few breaths to calm himself and entered the house, where he found Laeta sitting on the bench in front of the hearth, her hands resting on her stomach.

“Laeta,” Agron said as gently as he could and sat down beside her. “Who did this to you?”  
Laeta looked up at him, a confused frown on her face.  
“If he still draws breath, I will see to it that he will get what he deserves.”

She looked at him for another moment before a small, sad laugh escaped her. “You misunderstand,” she said with a wistful smile. “He no longer draws breath, but everything he did, he did so because I wanted it.”

Agron tilted his head, but then the realisation hit him like a second blow.

“Spartacus,” he whispered. “It is his child you carry?”  
“As of yet,” she replied. “Neither of us may survive this winter.”  
“You will.” Agron got up and gritted his teeth. “You will, and so will the child. If anything, my mind is more set upon what we planned to do.”  
“I expected no less of you,” Laeta replied with a smile.

Agron shook his head and dragged a hand down his face before he looked at her again with a sigh. “I feel unwilling to involve you in this, but I fear we do not have a choice.”  
“Not if we want to succeed,” she replied. “But I want to fight for my survival as much as everyone else.”

They exchanged a long look, and as Laeta offered Agron another hesitant smile, he reached out and tentatively took her hand. It rested in his like a feather, smooth to the touch and weighing nothing.

And again, he wondered when and how he had become so fond of this woman. But then, she was probably thinking the same thing about the German gladiator she was looking at. His eyes fell onto her waist again.

“I swear,” he began in a heavy voice. “I swear I shall take care of you, and the child, as if he were a fruit of my own loin. You will never want for protection as long as I am near, and I shall teach him the ways of the man.”  
“Gratitude,” Laeta replied as gravely, but with a twitch of her lips. “It may yet be a daughter, though.”  
Agron huffed a little chuckle. “I shall still teach her the ways of the sword, then. No child of my people shall ever grow up unable to defend herself.”

How strange it felt, but in a way, how right, too. His people. In all that time, they had looked up to him, for guidance, for advice, for direction. He had grudgingly taken the mantle of leadership, but in the end, had worn it better than he would ever have dared to hope.

His people. Yes, this rag-tag group of half-starved men and women who had fled slavery, who had braved all odds with him, they were his people. And he would crawl to Hela’s ice-cold realm on his knees before he let anything happen to them.

* * *

The next two days saw the final preparations of their plan, a plan of utter madness, a plan that would have made Spartacus proud, or jealous, or maybe even both. And once everything was done, and they were as best prepared as they could ever be, a small group of them left their little village and took to the roads once more.

Four days later they reached Sumelocenna, the Roman city at the banks of the Nicarus. The nights had been wet and cold and yet, none of them had complained, as the greatest ordeal, the greatest trial the gods might yet have for them, still lay ahead.

They stepped through the gates of Sumelocenna shortly after noon that day: Gaius, a slave who had been amanuensis and highest ranking slave of his dominus’ household, with Laeta at his side, her left arm bandaged and worn in a sling. The two of them were posing as a Roman and his lady. There was Sibyl as Laeta’s slave, a young boy named Trebius who was to be Gaius’ personal servant, and Agron. Agron, former gladiator and now trusted guard. He, like Trebius and Sibyl, did not need to hide his brand, and a rudis had been carved quickly and without trouble.

The guards mustered them, but did not spare them a second glance.

The story was easily spun, and easily believed. A Roman, not so wealthy to begin with, and his bad habit of gambling and drinking. His wife, married to him as token. Both had come to the city to buy supplies to get their – doubtlessly miserable – estate through the winter.

With one problem: all the coin had been gambled away, and what he had not lost in gambling, he had spent on wine and whores. Their slightly threadbare clothes and not really healthy complexion made this story perfectly believable. So far, their plan had worked.

The real challenge still lay ahead, and it all rested on Agron’s shoulders.

Sumelocenna was not big or important enough to have an arena, and while there were occasional gladiator fights, those never happened during winter. But as Agron had hoped, the city was big enough to have something akin to the Pit in Capua. And this is where he, Gaius, and Trebius now went.

It was madness. Utter madness. Taking their last handfuls of coin and betting them in fights that Agron had to win could only lead to disaster, unless the gods themselves stepped down from the heavens and offered their assistance. Yet not making the attempt at multiplying their coin to be able to buy supplies might see them all dead with spring. They had a chance now, having found the village, but should this winter turn out long, or harsh, or both, then it would not be enough. Should they be able to buy food and seeds for next year’s crop however, then the future would look a lot brighter.

And so Agron found himself on the sands once more, after all. His hands were sufficiently healed for him to handle weapons, and he was confident enough of his remaining skills as he would not face professional gladiators here, as opposed to an arena. The gods favour the brave, his mother always used to say. Time to find out if that was really true.

Agron watched with a cold feeling in his stomach as his ‘dominus’ bartered with the editor of the games, or whatever he was called down here in what had to be the sewers of the inner city. He didn’t listen, didn’t care about the particulars, he only knew that if he won, they would leave this place with two hundred denari instead of twenty.

A short blade in each hand – issued by the weapons master of the pit – Agron now faced his first adversary. He had to make it through three rounds and be the last man standing for his dominus to be allowed to carry his winnings home.

_Let them come_ , Agron thought. He had faced worse odds and emerged victorious.

_Let them come._

* * *

Agron was still able to walk on his own, back to the tavern where they had rented rooms, but it was a near thing. They had to take some of the winnings to pay for a medicus to stitch up the cut in Agron’s leg, but overall, it could have been much worse. Agron was in pain, but he was still grinning.

“That went better than expected, I gather,” Laeta said after they were alone again.  
“No cocks and no brains, they posed no challenge,” Agron said and stretched sore arms. “How much will that buy us?”

After some calculating back and forth, they realised that while it might buy them seed crop, it would not be much more.

“So we need at least twice the amount,” Agron said and rolled his shoulders.  
“So it would seem.” Laeta gave him a worried once-over. “But you cannot-”  
“I shall do as I must,” Agron cut her off. “Feed me some meat and let me rest warm, for a change, and then take me there again tomorrow. What they call fighters down there are useless little cunts, and I can kick their balls out of their ears anytime.”

Laeta cocked one eyebrow, and Agron rewarded her with one of his shit-eating little grins.

Truth to be told, he felt a little less cheerful than he looked, and he had to remind himself to not get cocky. But the first, most important step had been a success.

Agron did sleep well that night in a proper bed, a luxury he hadn’t had in months. He gorged himself on meat and bread and a sweet dish that he begged Laeta to learn how to prepare: Pears cooked in white wine and honey, and served in a sauce made from cream thickened with egg yolk. That they might never be able to afford such luxury was a fact they both ignored.

Agron didn’t care how indecent he sounded as he devoured his second bowl, and he ignored Laeta’s fond laughter.

After last night’s fight Agron’s victory that evening didn’t come quite as easy, as he could feel the fight in his muscles and bones, but they did walk out again with two hundred denari more. But as they had settled down in their rooms in the tavern with food and wine, Gaius looked at Agron and cleared his throat.

“What is it?” Agron lowered his cup.  
“I was approached by the pit master,” Gaius began hesitantly. “He wants to hire you for a spectacle. But in truth I think he is angry about his losses and wants to do away with you.”  
“Ah.” Agron reached for the jug and poured himself more wine. “And what kind of spectacle is that rotten little cunt thinking about?”  
“Another fight, obviously.” Gaius took a deep breath. “But on his terms.”  
“On his terms?” Laeta leaned forward. “And what does that mean?”  
“It means he will choose Agron’s opponents, their weapons, and their numbers, for a single fight. If Agron wins, he said, I will win three nights’ worth of his winnings.”  
“And if I lose?”  
“Then you shall be dead, and we with you, because then our disguise will come to light as the lie that it is,” Gaius said simply.

Agron stared into his cup and the red droplets trickling down the wall and back into the wine.

“And did you say yes?”  
“No.” Gaius sighed. “But I said I will think about it.”  
“I guess he gave you an ultimatum?” Agron looked up again.  
“Of course he did.” Gaius shrugged. “He wants you gone, after all, so he does not want to give us a chance to vanish. Tomorrow night.”

Licking his lips, Agron looked at the stitches in his right leg. Today’s exertion hadn’t done them any good, and he had several other spots in his body that hurt and would scream at him tomorrow morning. And he had no illusion that the fight would even be remotely fair.

“But what choice do we have?” Agron asked eventually.  
“We do have choice,” Laeta snapped. “We can leave with sunrise.”  
“No we cannot,” Gaius replied. “We have to get to the market and buy the supplies, and a cart to get them home.”  
“That still does not mean we have to send Agron to his death,” Laeta gave back.  
“Just think what that money could mean for us,” Gaius said. “It might be as much as a thousand dinari, and it would buy us not only crops but even some livestock. If the pit master was not such an absolute cocksucker I would suggest we say yes, but he will do anything he can to get Agron killed as revenge.”

In the silence that followed, the crackling of the fire seemed like thunder.

“Let him,” Agron said eventually, mind made up. “Let him try. I survived my own crucifixion. I will survive his attempt on sending me to the afterlife as well. If he tries to fuck my arse he will find his cock rammed into his own hole instead.”  
“I know you said the gods favour the brave,” Laeta began, her voice trembling, “but I don’t think they favour a madman.”  
Now Agron had to laugh. “Think back a few months and remember the father of the child you carry. If ever there had been a madman favoured by the gods, then it was him.”

Trebius was the first to raise his cup.

“To Spartacus,” he said.

“To Spartacus,” the others echoed, and they all drained their cups.

The decision had been made.

* * *

Agron spent his day resting, cautiously stretching sore muscles, and praying to the gods that the stitches in his leg would hold.

There wasn’t anything else he could do. He knew that his chances were slim. But he also knew that survival rested on his victory. Maybe some of them would make it through the winter as things stood now, but they still were without seed crops. They would have to rely on the crops that had sown themselves on the abandoned fields, which might not even be enough to start a new crop, lest alone feed them.

This was the only way. And failure was not an option.

Laeta’s face was drawn with worry and Sibyl was fighting her tears, as he and Gaius left them that evening to head for the pit. Agron tried to offer the women an encouraging smile, but he was sure that he had failed. He felt an impending sense of doom creep up on him, and did his best to ignore it.

Agron didn’t even listen to Gaius arguing with the pit master. He knew that the cunt was trying to get him killed, and Agron decided he would survive this just to spite him, even if the life of his people wouldn’t depend on his victory.

When it was time, he was given his two blades again, and he entered the fighting ground with gritted teeth, but then his heart turned to lead in his chest, and a heavy coldness settled in his bones. He was facing four adversaries. Not even spite would let him see another sunrise. But he’d be damned if he wouldn’t fight to the last drop of his blood.

It was then that he felt it.

Just as you can feel someone behind you, without yet being able to hear or see them.

There was a presence, as clearly as if a man stepped up beside him. And from the corner of his eyes, he could almost, _almost_ see him.

So maybe at long last, he was finally losing his mind. Maybe he had lost it long since. But at that moment, as he faced his doom, he felt the presence of the one man beside him who had awoken in him a fire that had carried him through perils unimaginable.

He could almost see Spartacus nod at him. And then he felt it again. He felt their presence, could almost see them too, as they stepped to his side one by one: Duro, his beloved brother, the mad fuck Gannicus, Saxa, Ludo, Donar, Oenomaeus, they all gathered around him; Crixus the fucking Gaul, even he came to his side, and Naevia, and Rhasgos, Lyndon, and Fortis.

He found himself surrounded by his friends and comrades, who seemed to have reached out from the afterlife to aid him and his people, the people they had all given their life for. He felt their presence like a blessing, just as if they were standing beside him to fight at his side one last time, and bring him to victory.

So he _had_ finally gone mad. But he could feel them and their strength in his soul, and accepted his fate with gratitude.

And so Agron hefted his blades, and screaming his challenge at the top of his lungs, he charged his enemies on the wings of an invisible army.

* * *

“Fuck the gods, he finally wakes.”

Agron tried to identify the voice, but for some reason, he was sure he hadn’t ended up in the afterlife just yet. Being dead shouldn’t hurt this much. His whole body was one single, indescribable pain; he couldn’t even begin to tell where one pain ended and the other began.

It took him some time to piece together what had happened to put him in such a state, and when he finally remembered the Pit he managed to open his eyes. Or one of them, at least. The other remained stubbornly shut. It certainly hurt enough to be swollen for a while.

“Agron,” a gentle voice now said. “Agron, bless the gods, you are awake.”

He didn’t feel particularly blessed right now. But the fact that he seemed to have survived surely meant he had been victorious?

“Did we...” Did we win, he had meant to ask. But his voice hardly obeyed him, his throat dry and raw, and his lips cracked as he moved them.

“You did,” the gentle voice answered, and now he recognised it as Laeta’s. “You won, Agron. It was a near thing, and we almost lost you, but you won.”

Laeta’s face swam into clearer view, and Agron could see that wherever he was, it wasn’t the tavern in Sumelocenna anymore.

“Where...”  
“Home,” Laeta replied. “We are home. You were unconscious for days, and we feared you would never wake again.”  
“Home...”  
“The village.” She rested a gentle hand on his right cheek. The left one was burning in pain, but then, so was his whole body.

Agron then noticed her worried face, her eyes that looked at him with concern and something close to sadness.

“Thanks to you, we will not only be free, but we will live in freedom too, through the winter and beyond. Your sacrifice has saved us all.”

Agron meant to ask what sacrifice she meant, as he had survived the fight, nothing a gladiator couldn’t do. But then he put two and two together. The left side of his face was throbbing in pain; he could hardly move his lips, the left corner of his mouth almost stiff. He also couldn’t open his left eye... which left only one conclusion.

Laeta saw the realisation in his remaining eye and caressed his cheekbone with her thumb.

Closing his right eye again Agron sighed and tried to fight the bitter feeling of loss. He had won, against all odds, and losing an eye for such a victory was a small price to pay. He still had one good eye, and he had known his days as a warrior were over anyway. He had been able to fight well enough with his damaged hands, but that he had survived the Pit like this had been a miracle, nothing else.

And then he remembered how all his dead friends had come to aid him from the afterlife, and a faint smile tugged at his lips despite the pain. He sent his gratitude to them in silence, and took a deep breath, trying to ignore the sting in his cracked ribs.

Once again, they had prevailed. He had offered the gods everything to save his people, and had proven in the Pit that he had meant every word. So the gods had taken payment, but not his life. Even in accepting his oath, the gods had shown him mercy. Sure, Agron would have given both his eyes if only his people could survive and prosper, but the fact that he hadn’t had to was another blessing.

A cup was pressed gently to his lips and Agron drank, too thirsty to complain about the bitterness of the herbal brew. Soon after he sank into the respite of oblivion again, but the smile stayed on his lips even in his sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there. I'm really working on it to get this done, promised. 
> 
> To avoid confusion: This chapter starts after a larger time break.

Time heals everything, that was something Nasir had desperately wanted to believe for all his life, or that part of his life after Spartacus had torn the collar off his neck. Now he found that it wasn’t completely true, as there were some things that no amount of time would ever change. Pains that would never vanish, wounds that would never heal.

And while he had mostly put the time in Rome behind him by now, the events that had preceded it were sometimes so vividly in his mind as if it had been yesterday and not almost two years ago. Sometimes he only had to close his eyes and he was back on the battlefield, surrounded by screams and dying men.

For a short amount of time Nasir had hoped that Syria would awaken something in him, memories, or feelings, or any sort of recognition. But he had felt nothing upon stepping from the ship all that time ago, and he felt even less at home here than wherever they had struck their tent during campaigning with Spartacus.

But at least now he had a purpose again, a fate of his own choosing. He was free, he was his own man, and he could put his skills to use in a manner that offered pride and satisfaction. He was a warrior now, no gladiator or a rebel but a mercenary, guarding merchant caravans or whomever could pay him enough for his services. He didn’t need much in his life, had no mind for luxuries, so his money lasted him long. He wasn’t forced to take any job he was offered, was able to chose his employers, and listen to his gut. It had served him well.

He had travelled to Damascus, Palmyra, Bostra, Petra, and Jerusalem, and once even to Alexandria. Yet none of these cities had ever made him feel at home, no place had ever invited him to settle there and try and find his peace. He was on the road, always on his way from one place to the other, knowing he would not find the peace he so desperately craved sometimes.

He could not say why he still had the urge to live. More than once he could have given up, could have let enemy spear or blade pierce him, bleed out on the dry, hot sands, and embrace his friends in the afterlife again. Yet something held him back, something made him fight, but after two years of being a mercenary, he felt tired more than anything else. Gods, he was tired. Tired of living like this, tired of not being able to find a home, tired of being alone. He had found neither friends nor comrades; most bands of mercenaries were without honour and he had no intention of getting on the wrong side of the law. He had enough of chains and collars to last several lifetimes.

But he didn’t know what else to do, so he accepted another merchant’s gold, and almost two years after he had left Rome he found himself in Antiochia again, where he first had set foot in Syria after having been taken as a child.

He took his pay, but couldn’t even be bothered to find a tavern to treat himself with some much deserved wine and an even more deserved bath. Instead, he found himself at the harbour, and stared across the sea to the north and west. There, somewhere, lay the Alps, and beyond those the ones he had prayed for during all that time.

A strange longing arose in him again, and he wondered, not for the first time, if they had made it, if they had built themselves a life, if they were content, or if they had lost their fight against the mountains, cold, hunger, or the Republic itself.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the horizon, not until the sun stood so low that it began to burn in his eyes.

Sleep eluded him that night, despite his exhaustion, and his mind tortured him with memories. Memories of those he had called friends and comrades, memories of those he knew to be no longer of this world. But also memories of those who might yet be alive, somewhere to the far north. And he smiled at the image of Laeta and Sibyl, laughing at each other with their sewing in their laps.

Sunrise saw him leave the tavern again, and he bought a piece of bread at a baker’s stall he passed on his way. And as he watched the golden light ripple on the calm waves in the harbour, Nasir wondered if this was another dream that wasn’t worth dreaming.

But even as he pondered that thought, a sound caught his attention that he recognised all too well: a trader in flesh peddling his wares.

Nasir didn’t know what made him go there. He didn’t understand the urge and why he even gave in. He could help none of those poor souls, only watch them in their suffering and thank the gods that this time, it wasn’t him.

The slaver in question had four men on display, and three of them had the mark of a fugitivus on their forehead, marking them as deserters. The fourth one however bore no such mark, and he held himself with the stoic pride of a captured warrior, someone who did not deserve the chains that bound him.

Nasir couldn’t say what it was about that man that struck something deep inside him, but he couldn’t look away. The slave looked straight ahead however, his gaze above Nasir, his back straight and his arms chained before him, and it almost seemed as if he didn’t tear his shackles apart just to do his masters a favour.

Something about him reminded Nasir of someone, but it was when the slave finally met Nasir’s eyes in a glaze of bold, furious defiance, that Nasir realised what it was. The captured warrior reminded him of Crixus. He had the same dark hair, the same bold chin, and the same burning hatred in his eyes for someone who he believed to be his enemy.

Before he could ponder that strange thought, the merchant, having spotted Nasir and interpreting his look as interest in making a purchase, approached him while rubbing his hands.

“I have some fine girls,” he said to Nasir with a twitch of his eyebrows. “They are on display in my own house, and I offer free wine, and free samples.”  
“Girls hold no interest to me,” Nasir said, without taking his eyes off the warrior.  
“Ah,” the merchant said, a smug, unpleasant smile on his face. “After a stronger fare, I see. I just fear that this one in particular might offer little pleasure. More likely, he will cut your throat. I was keeping him aside to sell to the galleys. A shame, really, but I have no mind to feed him until I find a lanista.”

Nasir finally tore his eyes away from the man. “Where does he hail from?”  
“A barbarian from the north,” the merchant replied. “I let myself be blinded by his form, yet I should have known a filthy Gaul would make me no profit. Too stubborn. Too hard to break.”

A Gaul. So Nasir’s instincts had not betrayed him.

The next thought in his mind almost made him laugh. The thought of a mad man... or that of a man with nothing more to lose.

“How much for the Gaul?” He asked, ignoring the shackled man’s murderous glare.  
“I advise to leave that man to the galleys,” the merchant said slowly. “A beast like him cannot be tamed other than by brute force. If at all.”  
“Maybe,” Nasir said slowly. “Maybe not. His price?”  
“I had hoped to sell him for fifteen dinari, but if you want him to throttle you in your sleep, you can have him for ten.”

Nasir nodded, put his bundle down and walked towards the Gaul who looked as if he would have bitten off his head, had he not been shackled to the block upon which he was standing.

“[ _You are a long way from home_ ],” Nasir said, in the tongue of the Gauls.

“You speak that filthy language?” The merchant’s eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of his head.

Crixus had taught him long ago, much to Agron’s discontent. But since having an interpreter on hand was always an advantage, as not every slave spoke Latin, he had not grumbled too loudly. Nasir had made use of his memory which had been trained from childhood to absorb and store knowledge as fast as possible, and had learned several languages during the time he had travelled with the rebel army. None of them perfect, granted, but well enough. Definitely well enough that the Gaul stopped glaring daggers at him and instead stared at him in confusion.

“[ _A man of your people taught me your tongue a long time ago_ ],” Nasir explained, still in the Gaulish language. “[ _I held him in high regard_ ].”  
“[ _Take the regard and shove it up your ass_ ],” the Gaul replied.  
“[ _You sound just like him_ ],” Nasir replied with a small smile, ignoring the stare of the merchant. “[ _And it pains me to see you in chains_ ].”

The Gaul didn’t reply.

Now Nasir was left wondering if his plan could get any madder and decided that he might as well follow his gut and heart.

“[ _You long to see Gallia again_ ],” he said.  
The Gaul stared straight ahead, but the line of his shoulders hardened.  
“[ _I can see you free of those shackles, see you to your homeland_ ].”  
“[ _Why would you do that_ ]?” The Gaul asked, and Nasir could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, the sliver of hope that he tried to extinguish.  
“[ _He was a great man, and my heart still weeps for his death_ ],” Nasir replied. “[ _I could not save him, but I can save you, and honour his memory with your freedom. All I ask is your oath that you will not turn on me_ ].”

The Gaul licked his lips, his jaw working, his hands curling into fists.

“[ _I understand you do not trust me. But even if I cannot say his name where anyone can hear, I am sure that you heard of the undefeated Gaul_ ].”  
The Gaul’s eyes flew open. His lips parted, but before he could say anything, Nasir continued.  
“[ _Do not speak his name. Pretend whatever I said to you made you want to serve me. Bow your head, call me dominus, and we see you free of those chains and the arms of the Republic. You have my word, on his name_ ].”

The Gaul hesitated for another moment before he finally dropped his head.

“What...” The merchant looked back and forth between the two, and now stared at Nasir as the latter dug into his pouch.  
“Those barbarians are so easily impressed. Worry not on my account, he will serve me well.”

And with that, Nasir handed the merchant ten dinari, and was given the chains that bound the Gaul’s hands.

“See him free of the shackles,” Nasir said.  
“It be on your head,” the merchant replied sourly, and unlocked the Gaul’s chains.

But the Gaul did not try to run or attack, instead he bowed his head and lowered his eyes before Nasir.

“Fuck the gods,” the merchant muttered. “I shall heat the coals then, to have him branded.”  
“Collar him,” Nasir said sharply. “He shall not doubt my benevolent disposition towards him.”  
“As you wish.”

“[ _We are doing well_ ],” Nasir said to the Gaul. “[ _Bear the collar, as long as you need. You have my word that you will only wear it for as long as necessary_ ].”  
“[ _Very well_ ].”  
“[ _What name do you go by_ ]?”  
“Trito,” the Gaul replied. “Dominus,” he added then, with a trace of a wry grin.

Nasir lifted his eyebrows, but he saw the glint in Trito’s eyes. The Gaul was ready to play his part, do anything to get back home again. And gods willing, Nasir would aid him.

The Gaul now followed meekly as Nasir headed towards the merchant’s hut next to the auction block. A solid leather collar was placed around the warrior’s neck, and he followed Nasir like a tame, well-behaved dog.

Nasir provided a good meal and wine that night, and listened to Trito’s story. It was not spectacular; he was a prisoner of war, captured in Gallia and first shipped to Neapolis, then to Corinthus, and finally to Antiochia.

“I wondered why no one would buy me but another slaver,” he ended his tale. “But now I see the gods had a plan, to see me home again.”  
“I pray their plans hold true,” Nasir replied.  
“Tell me then, why would you see a Gaulish slave free to his homeland? I know you spoke of the undefeated Gaul, but what do you owe him?”  
Nasir shrugged. “Everything, though not to him alone. I was freed, by him and others, followed those that set me free, and in the end...”  
Trito gave him a long, calculating look. “You were with the rebel army?”  
“I was.” Nasir closed his eyes and shook his head. “In the end, I lost everything, but by a smile of fate, regained my freedom. I wish to pass that luck on, yet there is none of my old friends and comrades who still draws breath. But I like to think that they now look on me from the afterlife and smile.”

Even if it would irk Agron immensely, that Nasir was now with a Gaul, of all men. But even his beloved brute from east of the Rhine would have understood. Nasir would have taken this step had it been a man of Agron’s people, a Gaul, a man from Iberia, Dalmatia, Greece, or Thracia.

“So what is your plan then, little man?” Trito asked after a moment.  
“First of all, call me that again, and I will sell you back to the filthy merchant I bought you from.” Nasir gave him a glare.  
“Apologies,” Trito said, but did not look overly contrite.  
“We travel north,” Nasir said then with a shrug. “Although we might draw less attention if the man who looks like a warrior or a former gladiator travels with his favourite boy.”  
“So we exchange our places?”  
“I trust your word,” Nasir said, narrowing his eyes. “I bore a collar for long enough.”  
“And I will see you from it,” Trito replied. “If not for you, I might be shackled to the bench of a galley with sunrise, never to see my homeland again.”

They clasped hands then, and the next morning they left Antiochia on the first ship that set sail towards their destination.

Trito now bore Nasir’s spear and gladius, and good clothes that they had bought on the market, while Nasir followed him with bowed head, a soft collar around his neck. No one paid them any mind, and the waves carried them northwards, the Gaulish warrior and his Syrian slave boy.

The first ship carried them to Carthago, and from there they took another ship to Neapolis.

Since they had had ample time to talk during their journey so far, Trito knew about Spartacus and his army, the battles they had fought and won, and how it all had ended. He did not ask what Nasir was feeling upon laying eyes on Vesuvius again.

Truth to be told, Nasir had no idea what he was feeling, either. It was a numb sort of pain, memories awash with sorrow, and yet, there was a small and wistful smile on his lips. It was there, in the shadow of Vesuvius, that he had experienced his very first kiss, and for the first time had touched another body of his own free will.

Accompanied by those bittersweet memories Nasir followed Trito northwards, but they did not head for Rome directly.

Nasir couldn’t say what drew him to Capua. He knew that there was nothing but bitter memories, long dead, memories that were not even his own. Maybe it was to lay eyes upon the very spot where it had all begun, to see where their journey had started, now that he had been there when it had ended.

The house of Batiatus, high above the city, stood empty and deserted. Pigeons nested in windows and on pillars in the villa, and rats scuttled down in the darkness of the ludus. The house was said to be cursed and haunted, and no one wanted to go near it.

Trito had not understood what Nasir wanted here, but he had not tried to talk him out of it either. He just sat down on the stairs to the villa and waited for Nasir, who slowly walked around on the sands that had made Agron the man he had been.

Sacred ground, watered with tears of blood.

It was here that Duro, Agron’s beloved brother, had drawn his last breath, pierced by a roman blade.

Maybe that was what had drawn Nasir here. He walked across the sands, and at one point, he knelt down and picked up a handful of sand. He let it run through his fingers, images of Agron, his muscles gleaming in the sunshine, as clearly in his mind as if he was looking at him.

At the very bottom of his pack Nasir had hidden away a small pouch that held a single stone, the small piece of Agron’s grave that he had managed to keep hold of during his captivity. Into that pouch he now filled a handful of the sand that had drunken Duro’s blood upon his death.

Trito still did not question Nasir’s actions, and pretended not to notice the tears on Nasir’s cheek as they left the house of Batiatus again. His pack seemed heavier, Nasir felt, much heavier than a handful of sand should weigh.

It broke his heart, again and again. They had never seen their beloved homeland again, and Nasir’s pitiful symbol was no more than that, an afterthought of fate, hardly more than a cruel jest. A handful of sand and a little pebble was all that would return home of the two brothers, it was all that Nasir could do for them. All that was left. But whatever happened to him, once he had reached the lands north of the Alps and east of the Rhine, he would have brought at least the memories of the brothers home.

Trito didn’t try to engage Nasir in conversations during the next few days. They talked about the necessary things as they neared Rome, but neither of the two former slaves felt the desire to stay there for any amount of time. They left the city after spending a single night in a cheap tavern, and they took to the roads leading north with sunrise.

It was too early in the year to cross the Alps that were still covered in deep snow, but in Pisae they found a trader who carried them across the sea towards Massilia.

Trito touched homeland soil again more than a year after his capture, and he fell to his knees at the harbour, touching the ground below him with the palm of his hand. His eyes were wet as he looked up at Nasir, and he smiled at him through his tears.

“You have my eternal gratitude,” Trito said after he had gotten to his feet again. “And while I believe that your plan is folly, I will help you in return for my freedom.”  
“I asked for no reward,” Nasir said with a frown.  
“No, you did not,” Trito replied, and reached out to remove the collar around Nasir’s neck. “And yet, I will repay you. I will see you across the Rhine, to make sure you cross safely into the lands of the shit-eating Germans. I shall not follow you any further than that, as my heart longs for my own people. But this, I can offer.”

He offered Nasir his hand, and they clasped forearms again, and Trito slapped Nasir’s shoulder for good measure after they had let go.

Spring was a long time coming yet, so Trito helped Nasir acquire appropriate clothing since Nasir had never been this far north, and had never lived through a real winter. Solid fur boots and trousers of wool, woollen tunics over linen shirts, and woollen cloaks with fur-lined hoods saw them well equipped for their further journey. And after buying two sturdy horses they travelled north and west for another two weeks, until they reached the Roman city of Mogontiacum at the banks of the Rhine.

“This is where we part,” Trito said, and he and Nasir embraced for a long while before stepping apart. “You shall have my eternal gratitude, Syrian, for my freedom. And may the gods bless your journey, so you may find what you seek.”  
“May the gods bless you as well,” Nasir replied. “Do not let the Romans capture you again.”  
Trito laughed and took the reins of his horse. “Farewell, little man.”  
“Farewell, shit-eating Gaul,” Nasir replied.

They parted ways then, there at the head of the bridge in Mogontiacum, and Nasir looked ahead as he crossed the Rhine.

He was in Agron’s homeland now. And he would die here – alone on the road, or after having found what he sought. Either way, he would never see Syria or the Republic again, and it was a comforting thought. And after crossing the river he turned east and south, not knowing if he would ever find what he was yearning for, but determined to find it, or die trying.


	16. Chapter 16

The ringing of steel on steel was still the sound of Agron’s life, but it was a different melody now. It was no longer the clashing of blades, but the song of his hammer falling onto the anvil. 

Every now and then Agron would remember his contempt as a boy for this craft, his complaints, and his desire to become a warrior instead. Despite that he had been forced to learn, and while he had given up this craft in favour of another, bloodier one at an early age, he had retained a lot of memories. Not that he was in any way a perfect blacksmith who crafted perfect tools, far from it. But waking up those memories, and two years of practise aided by stubbornness and force of will, had turned him into a blacksmith who was good enough. 

The thought that the craft he had so despised back then was now giving him peace and satisfaction made him smile almost every evening, when he laid his hammer down and banked the fire in the forge. 

All those thoughts wandered through his mind again as he began pumping the bellows that morning to get his fire going again. The thought that he had never been able to imagine, back then, that he would find this sort of peace and satisfaction in a craft that was not blood and battle. He let his gaze roam across the open space at the centre of the village, watched the women chatting at the well, and listened to the rooster crow and the goats in the stable next to his forge bleat at each other. 

And once again, he thanked the gods for blessing his people like this. They had found a home here, on fertile soil, amidst forests rich with game and a stream rich with fish. They tilled the land and tended their livestock, they practised their crafts and raised their children, and those born during the last two years would never know brand or collar. For the others, collars were a distant memory, and while brands would always remain, they were now seen as a proof of their strength and survival. 

_“The collar that once bound my neck is but distant memory.”_

Agron swallowed hard and sighed, closing his eye. There were a lot of reasons he didn’t like to remember Sinuessa, but this one was by far the worst. The only real fight they had ever had, that had really caused blood to boil, and for what reason? As if Nasir would have ever betrayed him, no matter the form or smile of the other man. 

If only he could turn back time and never say those vile words. 

He snorted, shaking his head, and hefted his hammer. If he could turn back time, he would make sure not to lose Nasir in the final battle. 

No, that wasn’t true either. Because that would mean that he would not be here today, and neither would his people. He looked around again, and tried to fight the hollow ache in his chest that was always present when thinking of the past. Pride, yes, satisfaction, happiness even, after having made it. But there was this part of him that had died with Nasir on the battlefield that day, and as long as Agron lived, this pain would never fully leave him, and nothing and no one would ever be able to heal that gaping wound in his soul.

Trying to force his mind out of painful musings Agron picked up one of the rods of iron he had forged and drawn the day before, and began cutting it into pieces to turn into nails. Soon the rhythm of his hammer added to the peaceful busy noise of the village around him, but Agron’s mind wandered again, the task simple enough to not require his whole attention. 

_“I am no shepherd, no tiller of land.”_

Agron tried to focus on his anvil and his tool. No tiller of land. But a man of another craft but war. A man with a family, even. Wishing there was another one to be part of this little family was painful and pointless, so Agron forced his thoughts away again. 

Children were running around the well, playing with sticks and throwing a ball of wadded rags and string at each other. They would learn their chosen crafts in due time, as well as wielding a weapon to defend themselves. But for now, they could just be children, and their laughter was music in Agron’s ears. Randi and Damiro were among those children trying to hit the ball with their sticks, and the thought of his little family warmed Agron’s heart. 

Fate had tossed them together without as much as a by-your-leave, but now, Agron wouldn’t have it any other way. Randi and Damiro had a firm hold on his heart, as well as Teres, born during their first harvest in these lands. To honour his father they had given the boy a Thracian name, unable to give him his father’s true name since no one but the man himself had ever known. But not even at two years of age he already looked like the spitting image of his father, the only difference his hair that clearly was his mother’s. 

As if summoned by his thoughts Laeta left the house now as well, the boy on her hips. And because his mind was already wandering down the roads of memories, he also remembered at this moment how worried he had been during Laeta’s all but easy pregnancy, and how terrified when giving birth had almost cost her life, and that of her child. She had a place in his heart as much as his children, not as a wife of course, but as friend, or maybe a sister. She had taken the place of mother for the orphaned children he now called his own, and they shared their duties like any other couple, with her doing the chores of the household while he provided for them with his craft. The only thing that they didn’t share was a bed. 

A smile on her face, Laeta approached the forge now, and Agron’s heart melted when the boy called his name and reached out to him. He would never know another father but Agron. 

“Addo! Addo!”  
Agron put his hammer down and plucked the boy out of Laeta’s arm. “Hey there, little man. Come to help me in the forge?”

He ruffled the boy’s hair, an adorable mop of reddish curls, and handed him the smallest hammer he had. It still was too heavy for the little boy and Agron had to keep a hold of his hands, but the utter joy on Teres’ face made Agron grin and his heart glow. 

“I wish I could leave him here with you,” Laeta said as he took the boy again who wasn’t really willing to let go of the hammer. “We finished the new batch of woollen fabric that needs milling, and he will only get into the yarn again.” 

They both looked around the forge, at the tools and hammers, the barrel of water and the burning forge before exchanging a smile. Then Agron looked up and emitted a sharp whistle. 

“Randi! Damiro!” He waved them over as they paused in their game to look at him. “Take care of your little brother for a while!”  
“Yes, Agron!” Damiro came running and slung the boy over his shoulders like a little sack. Teres screeched in joy and laughed and pulled Damiro’s hair as the older boy carried him towards the other children. 

Laeta pulled her woollen shawl tighter across her shoulders and looked up towards the sky. “Will the weather hold? It would be so much easier if we could spread out the fabric outside.”  
“It should,” Agron said as he followed her gaze. “The skies are clear for now.”  
“For now.” Laeta frowned at the sky.  
“Let us hope for the best.” Agron rolled his shoulders. “Maybe this time the winter will truly leave for good.”

She nodded with a sigh and left, and Agron picked up his hammer. Soon the falling of the hammer mingled with the sounds of bustling life around him again. Truly, so much had changed during the last years. And he wondered what Duro would have to say to this, the fact that Agron suddenly had a craft and a family. And he also wondered if, had he survived, his brother would have found a woman to hold his heart. Nasir and Duro would doubtlessly have gotten along well too.

And of course that thought awoke the most painful memories of all, and Agron closed his eyes for a moment, the hammer resting for a few heartbeats before he brought it down on the hot metal with more force than was necessary. But nothing could ever erase the image of the light leaving Duro’s eyes as he took his last breath in Agron’s arms.

He had failed to protect the men in his life he had loved more than anyone. And while he had been able to save his people, those who had chosen to follow him, his failure to protect his brother and the man he loved would haunt him for the rest of his days. He would have sacrificed far more than an eye if that could have given him his brother and Nasir back, even for a single day.

Leaning over his water barrel Agron got a look at his reflection, of a man who had left the arena behind as far as he possibly could. No longer wearing the leathers of a gladiator he no longer needed to scrape himself in oil, not that he wanted to, and while he didn’t wear his hair in warrior’s braids, he had not cut it during the last years. It wasn’t quite long enough to braid, but long enough to be held in a ponytail at the back of his neck by a leather string. He had grown out his beard as well, but kept it trimmed to the length of two fingers’ breadth as he didn’t want to look like having glued a haystack to his face. 

And then of course there was the scar running down the left side of his face, right through the eye socket, from eyebrow to cheekbone. And he wondered what Nasir would have felt about it, but something like anger curled in his guts at the very thought. Nasir would have kissed that scar and told him to be proud of it; he would never even have wrinkled his nose and would never have thought him disfigured. 

Agron plunged the hot metal into the water, and his reflection vanished in ripples and a cloud of curling steam. And he forced his mind away from wistful, painful memories and towards the future of his people as he watched his children play. 

Yet the whisper at the back of his mind remained. All but inaudible on better days, it was insistently whispering to him now. 

_You failed them._

He had. He had failed his brother and the man he loved. But he wouldn’t fail his family and his people.

* * *

Nasir had the nagging feeling that the gods had abandoned him since he had crossed the Rhine. The weather had turned from bad to foul, the winter having come back with a vengeance, and after only four days in the Rhine valley Nasir’s nameless horse had slipped in a snowdrift and broken both his forelegs. And so, after putting the poor animal out of its misery, Nasir had shouldered the heavy pack containing everything that had before been in the saddlebags, and continued on his way south. He had passed the huge mountain range, skirting its northern edges, and had followed another river south because the Rhine valley itself was populated by Romans, and the survivors, if they had made it this far, wouldn’t have settled directly under their noses.

That had been a few days ago, how many, Nasir couldn’t say. The days had blurred as he had followed the other river south, one like the other, and again, for the hundredth time, he wondered why he still cared. Why he was still walking, laboriously putting one foot in front of the other, when he could just have sat down in the snow, his back against a tree, and close his eyes. From what he had heard, freezing to death wasn’t so bad, you just stopped freezing at one point, then got tired, and after falling asleep, there was no waking up. 

And yet, he lit a small fire every night, huddled under his thick woollen cloak, and for some reason, was still alive with every sunrise. 

After rearing up one more time winter was finally losing the fight and the snow began to thaw, but while the going was less arduous without having to wade through snow, the ground had turned to mud for the most part from the constant drizzle. Nasir’s boots were caked and he couldn’t remember how it felt to have warm feet. There was no dry wood and kindling to make a fire, and wearing every scrap of clothing that Nasir owned didn’t warm his body anymore. 

Pulling his damp cloak tighter around his shoulders, Nasir forced himself to rise and fight another day, without knowing what he was fighting for anymore. He would never find what he sought in these lands. He couldn’t just ask anyone he might meet if they knew of a settlement of escaped slaves somewhere south of here. The gods themselves would have to point him into the right direction. And why would they?

But at least, Nasir had made it this far. Every night, when he had settled down at his meagre little fire, if he had been able to light one, he had taken out the little pouch with the stone and the handful of sand and weighed it in his hands, promising the spirits of the brothers that he would see them home somehow. And maybe this valley, carved by the river Nasir didn’t know the name of, was the very one that had been Agron’s homeland. 

Leaving his campsite behind Nasir turned south again and looked around, at the dead grass and shrubs and leafless trees, and wondered what this land might look in summer or spring. Agron had talked about blossoming apple trees dusting the slopes of the hills in soft pink, his eyes shining with fond memories and wistful yearning. 

Nasir wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. Agron had never seen the flowering apple trees again. 

It was that day that Nasir knew he wouldn’t last for more than another day or two. He had run out of food, and had not found a trace of a settlement anywhere nearby where he might have purchased more. And at dusk, he came across another stream meeting the river that had been his companion for days, coming from the east. He would have to cross it somehow if he wanted to continue his journey south, but it was far too broad to swim across. In this weather, the water would be so cold he would not make it to the other shore, but drowning was not a death he wanted to face. Being tortured in a water trough as a child to make him obedient had taught him as much, so freezing to death would be the lesser of two evils. 

And so he settled down in a little hollow on the slopes of the other nameless river, and lit another pitiful little fire. Maybe it was finally time. He had brought the brothers home, he had done what he could, he had fought and fought, and he was tired. Gods, he was so tired. And so, despite being cold and hungry, he fell asleep lying as close to his little fire as he could. 

He dreamed of Agron that night. There was the temple at the foot of Vesuvius, and he dreamed of Agron’s sweat-slicked skin glowing under Nasir’s hands, and of the smell of oil and dust and sand and sweat and leather. But then he suddenly was alone, and in the cold and dark surrounding him, he could hear the clashing of swords and the screams of men in battle. 

There was a battle and he needed to be with his friends, he needed to fight at their side, and yet he was trapped, bound by invisible chains unable to move. And then it suddenly wasn’t completely dark anymore, and he saw a male figure stride towards him. Yet it was not Agron to welcome him in the afterlife. It was a man as broad and muscular as his beloved gladiator, but his hair was black, in thick braids, and his eyes were dark. There was a ring pierced through his nose. 

“They are waiting for you,” he said to Nasir, and beckoned him to follow. 

“Wait!” 

Nasir struggled in his chains, but they did not budge. The young man did not look back and walked away while Nasir was desperately trying to break free. 

“Wait! Wait! Take me with you!” 

And from the desperate tearing at his bonds, Nasir jerked awake into a grey, murky twilight. Another kind of cold seeped into his bones now as he remembered his dream. He had never met Agron’s beloved brother, but Agron had talked about him often enough that Nasir could recognise him. It was Duro who had visited him in his dreams... or maybe, Nasir’s mind was simply growing feeble now with hunger and cold. 

It was then that he heard it: The hoarse, high-pitched shriek of a bird of prey. Nasir looked up, and saw a beautiful large hawk take to the air from the branch of the tree it had been perched upon, not ten steps away from where Nasir had been resting. It circled once above and then turned east, and Nasir followed it with his eyes until it vanished out of sight.

The thin flicker of hope that arose in Nasir made him almost feel angry, because what else had this been than a dream of a failing mind? The bird, a mere coincidence?

And yet...

And yet, Nasir shouldered his pack again, and turned his steps towards the east as well, following the bird and the river. It didn’t make a difference where he died, but despite his bone-deep weariness, he began to walk along the bank of the stream heading east.


	17. Chapter 17

Nasir was not entirely sure, since he couldn’t see the sun behind the grey, low-hanging clouds, but it had to be around noon when he felt he couldn’t take another single step. His spear had long since become nothing more but a walking stick, but his grip at slipped already several times this morning, and more than once he had almost landed flat on his face. It was his second day after he had left the broader valley to turn east, yet nothing but hunger and cold had been in store for him here either.

This was it. He was at the end of his tether. The gods knew he had tried. Had tried, and had held on much longer, much farther, than anyone had had any right to expect. But even while the going was easier here at the bank of the smaller river, he kept stumbling over his own feet. The stump of a tree had never looked so inviting, and Nasir sat down with a heavy sigh. 

It took his tired mind a moment to process just what that meant. 

A tree stump. Nasir almost jumped up again and looked down, and yes, this tree had been cut, not felled by storm or old age. And now he looked at the stream again, and the bank of the river that, not so far away, began to widen into a lake. That was the reason for the ground to be so smooth. He was looking at a path. 

He was close to a settlement. 

Somewhere east of here, there was a settlement, there were people, houses, fires, and maybe they had a little food to spare for a road-weary traveller. And while this discovery had not given him any new-found energy back it renewed his force of will, and hefting his spear, Nasir took to the path again. His heart began to race when he saw it, a small hut with a dock stretching out a ways across the lake. A small fisher boat was drawn ashore below the hut, and there was smoke coming out of the chimney. 

Fire. There was a fire. And maybe, if the inhabitants of the little hut were merciful, he would be allowed to warm his hands and feet for a while.

Tired as he was, and the only thing on his mind the fire, Nasir forgot to approach with caution and just walked straight towards the hut, spear in hand. And so it was he almost jumped out of his skin when all of a sudden a javelin bit into the ground right in front of his feet. He froze and looked up, and found two men look at him, one with another javelin, and the other with a bow, the arrow pointing right at Nasir’s chest. Both of the men had skin far too dark to be born in these lands.

Nasir’s heart was beating so fast it was about to break free from his chest. He hadn’t come this far only to be killed because of his inobservance, having stupidly lost his mind for a moment. He dropped his spear and took a small step away from it, raising his hands so they were visible from afar. 

“I mean no harm,” he called out, in Latin. “I am seeking the survivors!”

The archer now drew his bow and the other hefted his javelin. 

“I am not Roman!” Those had to be survivors; they had to be two of the slaves that had escaped in the wake of the battle. What else would their dark skin signify, this far north? “I am a survivor myself and I have travelled for months to find you!”

If he had needed any further proof, it was the conversation between the two men now, in a language Nasir had heard before in the camps of Spartacus’ army. 

“A survivor of what?” The man with the javelin asked now, while both men stepped closer, tense and with their weapons ready.  
“The battle at the foot of the Alps,” Nasir said, his voice trembling. “The one that saw the slaves free from the Republic’s grip.”

Both men were close enough now for Nasir to clearly distinguish their features, and from the way they likened each other, they could have been brothers. 

“A survivor?” The archer asked. “There were no other survivors than those that braved the Alps. That was two winters ago. Why are you still alive?”  
“I was able to flee the battlefield, but I was enslaved again,” Nasir said, desperate for the men to believe him. “And yet I was able to regain my freedom, and have come here to find you. All I want is peace, after all those struggles.”

After a tense moment of silence, the archer scoffed at him, the bowstring still taut in his fingers. “And you think we believe that? You are a Roman spy, sent to find us.”  
“I am no Roman! I was a slave just like you!”  
“Then show your brand,” the one with the javelin said.  
“It is hidden under my hair, at the back of my head,” Nasir said, trying to keep his breathing calm. 

The gods couldn’t be that cruel. They could not be that cruel, to lead him here only to have him killed by his own people. Nasir felt tears sting in his eyes and was desperately fighting to find words that they might believe. But at least they hadn’t killed him yet, so he had to make use of that as fast as he could.

“I was amanuensis to a wealthy dominus who did not want my skin to be marred by brand or mark. I was one of the first slaves that Spartacus freed, and I have fought at his side ever since, until the bitter end.” He took a deep breath. “Spartacus himself taught me how to use a blade... there, at the foot of Vesuvius. I was there when Sinuessa fell, and I was there at Melia Ridge, and...”

The bowstring loosened the tiniest bit, and Nasir hurried to go on. 

“I was lover to one of Spartacus’ generals,” Nasir said, ignoring the sting of pain. Even after all this time, he had never been able to speak Agron’s name out loud, as if the sound of the name could make his death more real. And since he was dead, he could not confirm Nasir’s word, so it was useless anyway. But then he continued hastily, his tongue almost stumbling over his words when another thought struck him. “There was a former Roman woman named Laeta, of great beauty with fiery hair, a brand the shape of an H on her left forearm... If she still draws breath she will vouch for me! I count her as a friend! I beg you to believe me!”

The two men exchanged a look, followed by another conversation in the language Nasir recognised but didn’t understand, not from this distance and spoken so low and fast. 

“I beg you,” Nasir said again, his voice rough. “Is Laeta yet among the living?”

The archer nodded at his brother, and the latter shoved the javelin into a holster on his back. 

“If you lied, we will end you where you stand,” the archer said.  
“So Laeta still lives?” Nasir asked, his voice giving out on the last words. It was more than he had ever dared to hope for. That there was one friendly soul left in this world to whom he could turn to.

One of the brothers now went back to the hut and came back with a small pack slung across his shoulder. He picked up Nasir’s spear once he had reached them, and Nasir followed them towards the path that was a little wider now, and a little smoother even, as it followed the river east away from the lake. 

While only moments ago Nasir had believed the gods had played nothing but a cruel jest on him, he still couldn’t believe that he should really be so lucky. That he should really, finally, find the people he had longed for, had been looking for, for so long a time. 

For the first time since he had crossed the Rhine Nasir slept sheltered that night; there was a little hut with a fireplace, newly built by the looks of it. Bostar and Gisco, brothers born south of Carthage, were not the talkative sort, but they shared their food with him, and while it wasn’t much, even a small chunk of bread and a strip of dried meat were like a feast. They hadn’t given him his spear back, however, and they told him they would keep watch in turns and would kill him if he made a suspicious move.

Nasir could not blame them. They had their people to protect, and as long as Nasir’s story wasn’t confirmed, he was nothing but a risk. But they had afforded him the benefit of doubt because he did not look Roman, and that was all that Nasir could have asked for. They rested only for a few hours, and were back on their way again before dawn. 

Nasir’s heart lightened as he took in his surroundings when the sun rose, albeit hidden behind thick grey clouds. He could see fields that had been harvested, and they passed two small bridges across the stream, and large areas loosely dotted with trees that looked too regular to have grown like this on their own. 

“Our fruit orchards,” Bostar explained, not without pride. “Apple and pear, mostly. Also [ _mispel_ ] and [ _quitte_ ].”  
Those words clearly sounded German, but Nasir had never heard them before. He tilted his head with a frown. “Are those fruits as well?”  
“Native to these lands,” Bostar replied. “I have never heard of them either ere we came here.”

The reached a bend in the stream then, and while the river headed south and east, the path they followed led to the north, and it was not much later that Nasir could see smoke. And then he could smell the fires, hear goats and chickens and a braying donkey, and then he could hear voices, and the laughter of playing children. It all brought tears to his eyes, because it was clear that their people prospered and thrived. 

The houses were large and strongly built, and they were arranged in a vaguely circular shape around the well at the centre of a large, empty space. Children were running around in the little village square, chasing each other or trying to keep a ball of rags rolling by hitting it with a stick. A few women stood together in a group, and at that moment they all laughed at something one of them had said. 

Nasir spotted her right away; her hair was no longer elaborately piled on her head in delicate curls but hung down her back in a thick braid, yet the fiery colour was still the same. She had a small toddler on her hip who was looking around, thumb in his mouth. 

While Bostar stayed at Nasir’s side, Gisco now approached the women and hailed Laeta in a low voice. As he spoke, Laeta’s eyes widened and then her head flew around. She stared at Nasir for a moment, eyes growing wider still, and almost absentmindedly pressed the toddler into the arms of one of the other women. She walked over, slowly and hesitantly. 

And all of a sudden, she slapped her hands across her mouth, barely stifling the scream that escaped her. She stumbled forward another step, and another, and as she dropped her hands, having reached him, tears were running down her cheeks. 

“Nasir?” She whispered tonelessly. “Gods have mercy... Nasir?”  
“Laeta,” was all that Nasir could say, so overwhelmed by relief he was about to collapse. 

For a moment, the two just stared at each other. Nasir felt all but turned to stone, stupefied; he had been imagining this, in those rare moments when he had allowed himself to dream. But now, that he was looking at her in the flesh, he had no idea what to do or say. 

But then Laeta took another step forward, reaching out, her hand ghosting across Nasir’s cheek in a feather-light touch, yet despite that Nasir could feel those fingers trembling. And then she closed the last bit of distance between them, and as she threw her arms around him with a sob, Nasir closed his eyes and clamped his arms around her in turn. 

“How is this possible...” Laeta whispered after a moment, how long, Nasir couldn’t say. She leaned back, her face wet with tears. “How is it possible?”

Digging the heel of his hand into one eye, then the other, while his other arm was still around her waist, Nasir was groping for words. It took him a moment to sort his thoughts, to go back in time to that painful day, and recount to Laeta what had happened to him. 

“I cannot quite recall what happened,” he began hesitantly. “I remember being in the throng of battle, and being separated from...” His voice caught on the next word, “...Agron.” The name hurt like a knife in his heart, yet now, at long last, there was no sense in trying to hide from it anymore. “But before I could find him... I must have been hit over the head, as I awoke under a pile of corpses and the battle around me long over. I wanted to... I wanted to find you,” he went on, his voice rougher as he spoke. “Follow you across the Alps.” 

He had to take a few deep breaths. Bursting into tears at the memories would be of no use. 

“As we separated from the army, back then, Agron told me that he only wanted me to live. And... as I lived, against all odds, I realised that I would have to go on living.”

Laeta stepped back a little and took both of Nasir’s hands in hers, her eyes intently on him but still brimming with tears.

“I tried to follow you, across the mountain pass,” Nasir went on. “I could go nowhere else. Honour his spirit, live on, as any other way would have meant capture and crucifixion, and it would have meant desecrating his memory.”

The pressure of her fingers increased, and Nasir looked at their joined hands for a moment. 

“I disguised myself with the attire of a dead Roman soldier to leave the battlefield unquestioned, but then...” He shuddered, the memory more vivid and more painful at this moment than it had been in a very long time. “But when I found his... the grave, I could not go on. And as I... I lost too much time, as other soldiers had followed me. And so the only thing I could do was turn and walk away with them, to draw them away from your tracks. I ended up in followers’ camp and slavery again, but I regained my freedom, and against all hopes travelled north to find you. The survivors.”

“It is nothing short of a miracle that you did,” Laeta whispered, trying to smile. “The same kind of miracle the gods afforded to us, to allow us to survive, to live and thrive in freedom.”  
“I would never have had to lose so much time had I just been able to tear myself away from Agron’s grave,” Nasir said, in a heavy voice. “I fought for too long with myself and the desire to end myself to rest beside him.”

He finally looked up again, and found Laeta stare at him with wide eyes, and pale cheeks. 

“Agron’s grave?” She asked in a trembling voice.  
“The grave... the pile of stones close to the path,” Nasir said, his voice unsteady as well. “It was marked with his weapon, the round, red shield bearing a serpent, pierced by a blade. I crafted it myself for the final battle.”

Laeta closed her eyes, and a shudder made her body tremble. And when she opened her eyes again they spilled over with tears. 

“Nasir...” she whispered, hardly audible. “That grave... it was not Agron’s grave.”

Nasir felt as if he had been thrown off a horse, his body all of a sudden wrapped in a numb sort of pain while being unable to breathe. 

“What do you mean?” When he could finally breathe again his voice hardly obeyed him, and he felt his legs go weak. “It was marked with his weapon! What do you mean it was not a grave?”  
“It was... it is a grave,” Laeta said, swallowing a sob. “Yet it is not Agron’s body that it holds. It is the grave of Spartacus, who was mortally wounded and could not be saved. We did have nothing else to honour him with as grave marker than Agron’s shield.”

Nasir’s head was spinning now; he was hardly able to process what Laeta was trying to tell him. It had not been Agron’s grave? “But why...” Nasir’s voice was reduced to a hoarse, suffocated whisper. “Why Agron’s shield? How did you come by it? Where does he lie then, if...”

“Nasir.” Laeta firmly closed her fingers around Nasir’s hands. There were more tears spilling from her eyes now, and she licked her lips repeatedly. “Nasir... gods... it was Agron himself who put it there.”

Nasir’s mind went blank. As if he was about to pass out. It all didn’t make sense anymore. Nothing made sense anymore. 

Agron had put the shield there himself, onto the grave that had never been Agron’s but that of Spartacus himself. But if Agron had put it there, then...

If it would ever be possible to suffer a death by a heart breaking the ribcage it is trapped in, then Nasir was sure to experience it any moment. It couldn’t be. It could not be...

And then Laeta stepped aside and turned away from him, and without letting go of Nasir’s hands, looked across the little village square and past the women watching them in silence. Nasir followed her eyes, and looked at the houses, and what he now realised was a forge, and his heart stopped in his chest and his very bones turned to ice when he laid eyes on the blacksmith. Tall and muscular, but even clad in wool and linen instead of buckled leather, and his hair long and bound back, and his face covered in a beard, he would know that frame anywhere.

 

Agron had noticed a commotion at the other side of the well but had given it little mind. He was working on a knife, a large one, to give to Damiro as his first weapon to fight with, and he meant it to be a good blade. If it was anything of importance, Laeta would inform him of it. It wasn’t until Randi came running, eyes wide and short of breath, that he lowered his hammer as he listened to her rambled tale of a traveller who was a survivor of the battle. 

For a wild moment of madness Agron’s heart leapt in his chest, a desperate wish that Agron tore out like a weed, to throw it into his forge to be burned to ashes. But then he looked up, and at the people gathered around the well, and at the traveller who was holding hands with Laeta.

A man, but not any taller than Laeta herself, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, but hair like a raven’s feather revealed by the hood that was hanging down his shoulders. 

And Agron’s fingers slowly lost their grip on the hammer, suddenly weak like those of an infant. It fell to the ground next to his feet, disregarded and forgotten like the blade that was cooling on the anvil as Agron stepped out of his forge on unsteady legs. 

He dimly registered that Laeta stepped away from the man, the traveller, the survivor, as Randi had called him, and as he stepped closer he could see that the other man was staring at Agron with widening eyes. 

And gods, Agron felt as if the heavens had opened above him, but wasn’t sure if they were raining fire and death upon him or blessings upon blessings. His mind was all but empty. And he still could not believe his eyes. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be... 

Agron stopped as only two steps separated the two men, and both were staring at each other with wide eyes and pale, stricken faces. 

“Nasir?” Agron finally whispered, a trembling question, hardly audible. 

Nasir stared back at him, shaking his head, over and over again. 

“Nasir,” Agron said again, his voice unsteady. “Nasir...?”

And when Nasir finally found his voice again, it was cracked, and raw with pain. His eyes were wide, and wild, as if he was looking at a nightmare turned flesh instead of the man he loved.

“I thought it was your grave,” he whispered. “All the pain...” He swallowed hard. “All I’ve been through... only because I wanted to honour your memory, but unable to follow the survivors... because I thought it was your grave...” 

They stared at each other for another long, painful moment. 

“I meant to go back and find my death where I believed you found yours,” Agron finally whispered. “But as I was about to go, I found two children, orphaned and alone. And I felt...” He shrugged helplessly. “I felt you would rather have me save them instead of throwing my life away. I, too, felt that I would honour your spirit in finding something worth living for, something that was not blood and battle.”

“I ask only that you live,” Nasir croaked, and Agron visibly shuddered at those words. “And so I tried,” Nasir went on, and now his voice began to rise, louder but no less cracked, no less laced with pain and anguish, shrill as if he was only a hair’s breadth away from being swallowed by the abyss of madness. “I would have followed you, had I not wasted all the time I had, wondering if I should end my life on your blade... your blade! I could have followed you but I ended up in slavery instead... all because I thought it was you in that grave! And I was a slave, and a whore, and I had my ass fucked by Romans more times than I care to count until the mercy of fate saw me free again... all because I thought it was you in that grave!”

Agron swallowed hard and shook his head, his eyes on Nasir’s trembling form. “And what... what would you have me say now?” His voice, too, was raw with pain. “Now, after more than two years have passed in which my heart has lain dead in my chest? Offer apologies for still being alive?”

Nasir stared at him, mouth hanging open like a half-wit’s. “No...” he gasped suddenly. “No... Agron...” 

He tried to take a step forward but his legs simply gave under him, and he fell hard to his knees, barely able to catch himself on one arm so he wouldn’t land flat on his face. 

“Agron,” he choked out, shaking his head. 

But Agron was already on his knees before him, his hands settling hesitantly on Nasir’s shoulders. 

“Apologies,” Nasir whispered, tears on his cheeks. “Agron... Forgive me, I never meant to...”  
“I know,” Agron said gently, voice low and rough. “I know. I am bereft of my wits as much as you are.” He tried to smile, but was not quite successful. “But the gods... the gods have brought you home. To me. My... my Syrian man...”

Nasir did not try to smile as he looked at Agron through his tears. “I am not the man you remember.”  
“Neither am I,” Agron replied slowly, shaking his head. “Much has changed. But not everything.” And he reached out, his hand reaching for Nasir’s cheek, but hesitating, as if waiting for permission. After a moment however he rested his palm against Nasir’s cheek, and a single tear broke free from his good eye to trickle into his beard. 

Nasir closed his eyes, his face leaning into the touch, but he swayed sideways and almost lost his balance, held upright only by Agron grasping his shoulders. His eye found Nasir’s, pain replaced with concern now. 

“You are exhausted,” Agron said and got up, holding on to Nasir’s hands to pull him to his feet. “You need food, and rest.”  
“Neither has ever been this welcome,” Nasir replied, trying to smile. 

They held on to each other’s hand for another moment, yet there was a tense silence between them, neither of them knowing what to say or do and even unable to meet each other’s eyes, overwhelmed by emotions they could not name. But then Agron let go and rested a hand on Nasir’s shoulder, to steer him into his house. Laeta entered just after them, and immediately opened the door to their small larder even as Nasir fell heavily down onto the bench at the large table in front of the fireplace. 

As soon as he had settled down Laeta was back with an earthenware plate piled with food: chunks of bread and goat’s cheese, dried apple slices, strips of dried meat and two boiled eggs. This was accompanied by a cup and a jug of goat’s milk. 

Nasir had never favoured goat’s cheese or milk, but now he devoured it as if it was the world’s greatest feast. Having gone hungry for so long he could first stop eating when his stomach began to hurt. 

Agron had helplessly stared at Nasir all the time, making both of them uncomfortable, yet unable to do anything else. He eventually had clumsily excused himself, to see after the forge, he had said, but Laeta had stayed with Nasir through his meal. Eventually however Nasir left his bench and sat down on the ground in front of the large hearth, to pull the wet and muddy boots off his feet. The heat radiating off the hearthstones finally began to seep into his bones, and he stretched out his legs to put his feet as close to the fire as possible. 

The fire danced and crackled merrily, and Nasir leaned back, basking in its warmth and the feeling of a full belly. His head was still all but spinning, and he was still unable to fully believe that he had found them... even less so that Agron would still be alive. Rightfully he should awake any moment, curled up on cold and wet ground somewhere out in the dead forests...

But the warmth and his tiredness made his eyes and body heavy, and despite the uproar in his mind, Nasir let his eyes fall shut, to rest them just for a moment. Everything would make sense if he just allowed himself a moment of rest.

It was there that Agron found him as he returned from banking the fire in his forge after salvaging the blade he had forgotten about. Curled up on the hard ground in front of the fire, Nasir had passed out in his exhaustion.

Agron and Laeta exchanged a worried look; the perils and hardships of his journey were clearly etched into Nasir’s face, the lines of exhaustion not even vanishing in his sleep. After another moment Agron sighed, and slowly went down onto one knee next to Nasir’s sleeping form. He gently slipped one arm under his legs and the other under his shoulders, and equally carefully, straightened up again. 

It bespoke of Nasir’s exhaustion that he hardly even stirred as Agron lifted him into his arms. His frown deepened and the rhythm of his breaths stuttered a little, but Agron just hummed softly at him to sleep, and Nasir relaxed again. 

He didn’t have to ask Laeta to open the door to his room as he carried Nasir away from the fire. 

The house had been large to begin with, but Agron’s people, to honour his sacrifice and his leadership, had declared he should live in as much comfort as was possible. So it was that his dwelling not only had a fireplace for cooking but also a hearth for warming the house, and they had attached rooms to the house so he had his own sleeping chamber with a smaller hearth, as well as Laeta and her son, and the children. 

So Agron gently put down Nasir onto his own bed and stoked the fire to keep the room warm. Nasir stirred and muttered something, his hand reaching for something that wasn’t there. But then Agron leaned over him, closing his eye for a moment. 

“Sleep, little man,” he whispered. “No harm shall ever befall you here, for I will keep you safe.”

And it was as if Nasir’s soul, in his sleep, recognised Agron’s voice, and without a mind that worried and feared he calmed down, the lines on his forehead finally smoothing away. 

Shaking his head with a sigh, Agron sat down on the small footstool next to the fire and crossed his arms. The wetness on his cheek glistened in the dim firelight as he took up his vigil, to watch over Nasir’s sleep and keep him safe, as he had promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went through something similar once, although I knew he wasn't dead. It was a long time though, and after being reunited it felt weird, and we felt estranged, and we needed some time to reconnect again. I know it's probably not what you've been waiting for, but bear with me, we get to the good part in the next chapter.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, and I can't believe it took me more than a year to finish this. My eternal gratitude to those of you who didn't give up on me. This is the end, almost. There is a small epilogue in the making, but this chapter puts everything right again. Thank you for reading and commenting, and again, thank you for not giving up on me.

As Nasir surfaced from sleep, the first thing he realised was that he was in a bed, a bed he had absolutely no recollection of. He shot upright and looked around, completely disoriented. The bed was huge; there was a fireplace with glowing embers, and daylight peeked through the shutters of the single window. Daylight was also visible under the crack of the door, and outside, Nasir could hear someone sing.

It was then that yesterday’s events came back to him.

He had found them. He was... he was home. And he was in Agron’s house.

Agron.

Nasir took a deep breath, and slowly, dragged his legs out of bed, a strange heaviness in his chest. 

Agron was alive. So why were they not close to each other? What was wrong between them that they hadn’t fallen into each other’s arms? What had the fates done to them?

His feelings for Agron hadn’t changed, not one bit, during the last two years, but he himself had changed, and Agron had changed as well. The ease and comfort and familiarity between them were gone, and Nasir didn’t know why. He only knew that he wanted it back, but had no idea how to go about it.

With another heavy sigh he looked down at himself, realising he was still in his grimy clothes he had worn for the last weeks. And however he had ended up in this bed, whoever had brought him here had taken great care not to wake him instead of attempting to get the slightly damp wool off his body.

Rubbing his hands down his face Nasir got up and cautiously, opened the door. It led into the main room and kitchen of the house, where Agron and Laeta lived. And assumedly, the children Agron had talked about. There was no one around however, but there was a plate with food and a jug and a cup sitting on the table.

Nasir didn’t need another invitation and sat down to eat, and afterwards, found his boots next to the door, cleaned and dry. Rolling his shoulders he stared at the door for a moment, and then stepped outside.

No one paid him any mind as Nasir looked around, at the village that he might call his home now, at the people that were his people, had been his people all through the last two years during which he had prayed for them and longed for them.

As he looked around a smile formed on his face, of relief, and of fondness. It faded a little when he realised how few people there were, but even those who had survived would have been worth the sacrifice in Spartacus’ eyes, and that was all that mattered. Still, Nasir wished there had been more who had made it to a life of freedom.

At that moment he saw Laeta round the corner of the house, a small basket in one hand and the toddler he had seen the day before on her hips, in a sling made of cloth. She smiled brightly as she saw him while the boy put his thumb into his mouth and mustered Nasir with a frown.

“Good morning,” Laeta said with a smile. “Apologies for leaving you alone to eat, but we had to feed the chickens.” She smiled down at the boy and back at Nasir. The boy looked at Laeta and at Nasir and back at Laeta again, thumb firmly lodged between his lips.

Nasir looked at the boy and then back at Laeta. “Is he... is he yours?”  
“He is,” Laeta replied and put down the basket on the bench next to the door. “Born during our first harvest.”  
Pressing his lips together Nasir looked over his shoulder into the direction of the forge, where the ringing of steel on steel could be heard throughout the whole village. “And is he...”  
“Gods, no!” Laeta chuckled and shook her head. “Agron and I live together to provide for each other, an arrangement born of necessity,” her smile softened, “and of friendship. But Agron and I never shared a bed. No, Teres is the son of Spartacus.”  
“Spartacus,” Nasir said, reverence in his voice. “He has a son.”  
“Yes,” Laeta replied, her smile turning wistful. “If only he could have seen him.”  
“He surely watches him from the afterlife, and will gladly act as his protective spirit if the need arises.” Nasir smiled at the boy who did not seem amused.  
“He would,” Laeta said, her smile warm but sad, and plucked the boy out of the sling.

Teres let himself be put down but kept mustering Nasir with unmasked distrust as he clung to his mother’s skirts.

“Do not be afraid, Teres,” Laeta said. “Nasir is a friend. And a friend of Agron’s.”  
“Addo?” The boy asked, around the thumb in his mouth.  
“Yes, Nasir is a friend of Agron,” Laeta replied and ran her fingers through Teres’ reddish curls.  
“Addo,” the boy said again and pointed at the forge. “Addo fodge.”  
“Yes, Agron is in the forge.” Laeta chuckled as she looked at Nasir. “Should we visit him?”

Nasir wasn’t quite sure if she had addressed the boy or him, but he followed the two nonetheless.

Agron was focussed on the blade on his anvil and only noticed their approach when Teres called out to him. He looked up, a bright smile on his face, but the smile dimmed, and turned somewhat uncomfortable, when he spotted Nasir. It was obvious that he felt the same confusion about his feelings and the rift between them.

Laeta of course saw the tenseness in them and with a smile, took Teres’ hand again and slung the other arm into Nasir’s, steering him away from the forge, to meet the other villagers.

And Nasir felt horrible for how relieved he was to be from Agron’s presence. His eyes stung from the sheer thought of it. What had happened to them?

He was distracted from his dismay by Sibyl who threw her arms around him with a sob of joy, and afterwards by introductions to people he didn’t know, and reunions with some he recognised.

The midday meal in Agron’s house was a tense affair, and Agron ate much faster than was proper, and headed back into his forge still chewing. Nasir watched him go and dropped the piece of bread he had between his fingers onto his plate, looking helplessly up at Laeta.

“I do not understand,” he said huskily. “Why is there no joy in our reunion?”  
“I am not sure,” Laeta replied cautiously. “Maybe it is all too much, and all at once. Maybe your hearts need time to grasp that the other is alive, and back.”

Nasir stared at his plate, shaking his head, but he didn’t have another explanation. So instead, he looked up again and asked Laeta if she could help him acquire a change of clothes. He desperately wanted to get rid of the grime and dirt of the journey that was still clinging to him.

“We do not have a bathhouse yet, sadly,” Laeta said and got up. “But we do have a large tub in a shed behind the forge. If one can be bothered to heat the water on the forge, it is free to use for bathing. I am sure Agron is willing to help you with the water.”

Nasir tried to suppress the thought that once, Agron would even have been more than willing to help him bathe as well, but as it were they couldn’t even touch each other.

Agron was indeed willing to help Nasir heat the water in a large kettle, but he didn’t offer any more help, and Nasir didn’t ask. He didn’t take his time either and just cleaned up and washed his hair, and put on the fresh clothes Laeta had found him, borrowed from a villager who was of the same size as Nasir.

Nasir spent the rest of the day sitting on the bench in front of Agron’s house, watching the life of his people happening before him. Children played, women drew water in the well and chatted; there was the sound of the forge and animals, and occasionally, a gust of wind carried a faint stench that told him someone was tanning a hide somewhere. He would have been content, happy even, if it weren’t for the hollow ache in his chest when thinking of Agron, how he had missed him, and how unable he now was to even talk to him.

 

Unbeknownst to Nasir, Agron watched him, had watched him as much as possible, from the moment Nasir had left his house. His heart was clenching painfully in his chest every time he thought about it, how much his heart had hurt, how much his soul had grieved and had cried out in his sleep, how much his body had craved a touch his mind had known he would never feel again.

And now there he was, his beloved little man, and there was a chasm between them Agron had no idea how to bridge.

He tried to occupy his mind with his work, tried to focus on the blade he was making for Damiro, but his thoughts wandered, and his eyes strayed back to the bench next to the door and Nasir who was sitting there, shoulders slumped and clearly still worn with exhaustion. And Agron longed to be able to take some of that load off his shoulders, but he couldn’t even talk to him, for a reason he couldn’t fathom, and it was driving him mad.

Knowing that in his state of mind he might well ruin the blade he was working on, Agron put Damiro’s weapon aside and took another raw ingot, staring into the flames as he waited for it to heat, while pumping the bellows so hard they belched sparks across half the forge. 

He started on another weapon, a simple sword for a grown man, and the roughly forged blade didn’t require too much thinking in the first stage. Yet his mind, even as he allowed it to wander, could not make sense out of the chasm between him and the one he had so longed for. 

And again, just as during the mid-day meal, the evening meal was far from relaxed, and what little talk there was, was mostly the chatter of Randi talking about the goat that had eaten a piece of another boy’s shirt earlier that day. Afterwards Damiro asked Nasir about his journey however, and Nasir recounted what had happened to him, but didn’t give any details about his time as a slave, and there wasn’t much to tell about his time as a mercenary. He talked about Trito as well, and how they had helped each other, and how he had struggled and fought his way here.

Yet once the children were in bed, the silence in the house grew heavier with each passing moment. Eventually Laeta picked up the sleepy toddler who had been dozing in her lap. 

“It is past Teres’ bedtime,” she said and got up. “And I am tired as well.”

With that she left them, and the silence came back three times as heavy as the door to her chamber fell shut. 

Agron and Nasir remained where they were, at the table opposite each other, staring at their hands and the wood grain of the table. Everywhere but each other. 

“What is happening with us?” Agron asked after what felt like an eternity. “Why do you feel like a stranger?”  
“Because I am,” Nasir replied heavily and finally looked up. “I am not who I was, the one you remember. I was a slave, a whore, and then a mercenary selling my blade and blood for coin.”  
“And when you look at me,” Agron began hesitantly, “do you see a stranger too?”  
“Yes,” Nasir said and swallowed. “And then again, no. I see Agron, but no longer Agron, gladiator fighting under Spartacus’ command. I see Agron, blacksmith and leader of his people.”  
“And what do you think I see when I look at you?”  
Nasir could meet Agron’s gaze for no longer than a couple of heartbeats. “I do not know.”

Agron huffed out a sad little chuckle and shook his head. 

“Then what do you see?” Nasir asked after a moment.  
Agron looked up, his eye on Nasir’s, unwavering. “I see a man who fought himself free of the collar of slavery, twice. I see a man who the world has tried to break, and who proved stronger.”  
“And what tells you I have not broken after all?” Nasir asked in a small voice.  
“You are here,” Agron said simply. “You prevailed. How many times have you been tempted to give up, and breathe out your life at the roadside?”  
“Many times,” Nasir gave back with a crooked, mirthless smile.  
“And yet, here you are,” Agron said with a small shake of his head. 

Nasir looked away again, and the silence was back. 

“Nasir,” Agron said after a long moment. “I do not know what to do. Tell me what I have to do... What is happening? What is this abyss between us?”  
“I wish I knew,” Nasir said and swallowed.

They fell silent once more, but Nasir seemed unable to bear it this time. He got up and went searching for his pack that was still sitting next to the hearth. He went into a crouch and dug into it, and after a while produced the little pouch, staring at it with slightly parted lips. Then he slowly sat down onto the bench in front of the fire, the pouch in his lap. 

“Agron?” He muttered, his voice rough. 

Agron got up and walked around the table, and towards the hearth, then sat down on the bench beside him. There was a large gap between them, and Nasir looked at the empty space with a sigh. He sighed again, and moved a little closer. Agron now did the same, and they were close enough now that they almost touched. 

Nasir didn’t look up at Agron as he opened the pouch, and he took the little stone, weighing it in his palm. 

“I took this from your grave… or what I believed to be your grave,” he said and forced himself to look up. “I took it because… because I knew it was the last touch of you I would ever feel.”  
Agron swallowed audibly but had no idea what to reply, shaking his head.  
“But it is not from your grave,” Nasir went on. “So, should I give this to Laeta, maybe?”  
“Maybe,” Agron gave back. “And maybe we all could draw a little comfort from having a tiny piece of him here with us.”

Nasir nodded and put the stone down next to him, and finally met Agron’s gaze again. 

“On my way north, through the republic, we passed through Capua. And…” He heaved a heavy breath. “I did not know, at first, what drew me towards the House of Batiatus. Maybe it was to lay my eyes on the place where it all began.”  
Agron listened, his shoulders tense, but he didn’t interrupt.  
“And when I was there… the house stands empty. It is said to be cursed and haunted, and only rats and pigeons live there now. Yet I stood there and looked at the sands that made you the man you were… the man I knew. And I also remembered that this was the place where your beloved brother died.”

Agron closed his eye and pressed his lips together, gritting his teeth. “I still wish I could have put him into a decent grave,” he said heavily. “As it was I barely had the time to close his eyes.”

“I know.” Nasir opened the pouch a little more. “And I… it was a strange thing. I had a piece of your grave, and I felt that maybe, like this, I could carry you and your brother home. Not in the flesh of course, and maybe not even in spirit. But with this… a stone of your grave, and a handful of the sand that drank your brother’s blood upon his death… I felt I might take your memories home, at least. Something. It is not much… next to nothing. But it was all I had.” 

Then he looked up again and held out the pouch to Agron. “It is yours now, if you wish. Maybe it holds meaning to you, more than it could ever hold to me.”

Agron reached out with a trembling hand, and took the pouch from Nasir’s palm. 

“A handful of sand,” he whispered hoarsely. “Nothing more remains of a man so full of strength and life. But we all become dust and shadows in death.” Then he looked up, and his eye was glistening. “It means everything to me, Nasir. My gratitude for this, from the bottom of my heart.”

Nasir managed a feeble smile, and looked at the fire again as Agron wiped the back of his hand across his eye, and then his nose, his fingers clenched around the pouch and what it held. He pulled the string then to close it, so nothing of the contents that were so precious to him could be spilled. 

“Gratitude,” he whispered again. “Now at least I have something, even if not more than a token, to put into a grave.”  
“It gladdens my heart that it might give you comfort,” Nasir said cautiously.  
“More than you can imagine,” Agron said and looked up at him, the wetness on his cheek glistening in the dim firelight. 

It was then that Nasir reached out without thinking and took Agron’s hand. For a moment they both tensed, but then Agron closed his fingers around Nasir’s, and rested his other hand atop their joined fingers. Nasir followed his lead and as they moved a little closer together, their hands locked in a firm grip, they looked at each other, this time without their eyes darting this way and that. 

It was Agron who finally broke the silence. “I would march to Rome this very moment, and tear everyone apart who ever laid hands upon you,” he said softly.  
“It would not change a thing,” Nasir replied, a small, wistful smile on his face. “It undoes nothing. Yet it warms my heart to see you still so fiercely protective of me, even if there is no need anymore.”  
Agron huffed out a chuckle. “It is in my blood.”  
“I know.”

Their eyes met again. 

“I wish more than anything that blood could wash away the shame and memories of Roman seed on my skin,” Nasir whispered. “I could never rid myself of feeling soiled.”  
“And is that why you shied away from me?” Agron asked, his voice achingly soft. “Because you felt soiled?”  
“In parts, I guess,” Nasir replied, his throat dry.  
“And if I told you that you would never stand as such to me?”  
“Of course you would say that,” Nasir said and looked into the fire again. 

Yet Agron didn’t let him pull his hands away. “I remember having heard those words before,” he said, his voice still gentle. “From Naevia, after we rescued her from the mines. Soiled and ruined she called herself, and while I understand her, did that ever stop Crixus from loving her with all his might?”

Now Nasir looked up again, a small shudder running down his back. 

“Remember Naevia,” Agron whispered imploringly. “Remember her, and the love between her and her man. I know nothing can undo what has been done, but I swear, I can never see you as soiled. I wish to tear those shits apart from limb to limb and let them choke on their own cocks, yes. But you? You shall always be the most precious thing in this world to me.”

“And yet it has changed me so much,” Nasir whispered huskily after a moment.  
“And my ordeals have changed me,” Agron replied. “Even if I still had two eyes, and be shorn and scraped in oil, I would not be the same man I was the day the fates tore us apart.” But then he frowned. “Would you want me to? Scrape myself in oil, I mean. So I look as you remember?”

Nasir blinked a few times, as if that had been the very last thing he had expected Agron to say. “No,” he said then, and the smile was warmer this time. “Keep your hair. It suits you.”  
“Northern barbarian that I am?” There was a trace of Agron’s unrivalled, shit-eating grin.  
“In all your hairy glory,” Nasir replied, his smile following suit. 

Then, for a second, he bit his lips, before he withdrew his right hand. He reached out, hesitantly, slowly, but his hand hovered in the air on front of Agron’s face for another moment before his fingers ghosted across Agron’s cheek. Agron closed his eyes and leaned his cheek into the touch, and Nasir now rested his palm against Agron’s jaw. Then his thumb ran down the cheekbone, along the scar that cut down his left side.

“How?”  
Agron didn’t have to ask. “We were in need of coin for livestock and seeds, so I wagered my life in the Pit of Sumelocenna and emerged victorious. It was a small price to pay for the survival of my people.”

A faint and wistful smile tugged at Nasir’s lips. His palm rested on Agron’s cheek for another moment before he withdrew his hand again, but kept his fingers outstretched so they gently carded through the bristly hairs of Agron’s beard. 

“I would never have believed I might say this one day,” he said after a soft, amused huff of breath. “But I find myself charmed.”

Now Agron finally opened his eye again, a lopsided smile on his lips. “It is one thing not being able to shave properly,” he said, “and quite another to grow a proper beard and keep it in shape.”  
“I see the difference now,” Nasir said and tilted his head, his fingers still toying with Agron’s facial hair. 

Agron closed his eye again and hummed as Nasir, emboldened, brought his fingers forward with a gentle scratch. He blinked a few times and tried again, combing his fingers through Agron’s beard. Doing it from throat to chin elicited an especially deep hum and Nasir couldn’t suppress a fond little chuckle. 

“A pleasant sensation?”  
“Very pleasant,” Agron hummed, eye still closed. “I had no idea.”  
“Should we explore this further?” Nasir asked without thinking, but then he tensed and was about to drop his hand when Agron looked at him, his eye intently on Nasir’s face. 

Agron reached out now too, hesitantly and slowly as if he was afraid he might spook Nasir like a shy animal, but Nasir didn’t lean away or flinch as Agron’s large, calloused hand touched his cheek. 

“And is your hair still like tresses of black silk?” Agron asked in a husky whisper.  
“I shall let you be judge of that,” Nasir whispered back. 

After a moment’s hesitation Agron spread his fingers and threaded them into Nasir’s hair. Then he combed them through the strands that fell easily apart, as Nasir’s residual vanity had made him carry a comb with him ever since Antiochia.

“I was tempted ever so often to cut it and be done,” Nasir admitted, and Agron focussed on his face again. “But then I would remember how fond you always were of it, and could not bring myself to do it.”  
“I dreamed of it,” Agron whispered, his voice rougher with every word. “Could almost feel it run through my fingers, remember the scent of it, and every time I opened my eyes, the bed beside me was cold and empty.”  
“It need not be so any longer,” Nasir whispered, and his lips parted as Agron’s fingers came to rest at the back of his head. 

“You know I will never touch you again should you want it so,” Agron said, his voice trembling. “I swear upon my life and blood. If you cannot bear the hands of another man on your skin, I shall never touch you again, nor will I ever ask.”  
“I know.” Nasir cupped Agron’s scarred cheek again in his palm. “And you have my gratitude. But no matter what I felt lingered on my skin before, your touch has never been unwelcome.”

Their faces were so close that they could almost feel each other’s breath, and with their eyes locked, and their lips parted, they did not move for a few heartbeats, a moment as still and silent as a memory conserved like a dragonfly in amber. A log broke in the fireplace in a cloud of sparks, bathing their faces in warm, golden light. Then Nasir closed his eyes, and Agron leaned in, and their lips touched. Soft, gentle, almost shy, infinitely tender, just like their very first kiss had been, a lifetime ago in the shadow of Vesuvius.

They moved without thinking and without being aware, but within the next heartbeats they closed their arms around each other, their kisses still gentle, but their hands holding on as if in fear the other would vanish again like a dream, dreams that had tortured them too many times already. 

They were breathing harder now as Agron broke away. “Sleep again in my bed tonight,” he begged, pressing his forehead against Nasir’s. “I do not lust after you tonight, I just wish to hold you.”  
“I shall never again sleep anywhere else but at your side, in your arms,” Nasir replied and leaned back, licking his lips. He ran a thumb across his lower lip and chin, a tiny, bashful smile on his face. Agron tilted his head with a slight, questioning frown. “I could get used to it,” Nasir explained, and shrugged, still smiling. 

Agron smiled as well, but then got up, and held out a hand to Nasir, who took it and let Agron pull him to his feet. The moment he stood Agron pulled him close, clamped his arms around him and buried his face into Nasir’s hair. They held on, their arms around each other, pressing their bodies together as if they were trying to melt into each other.

“Gods, how I missed you,” Agron almost choked on those words, his face buried in Nasir’s hair. “Sometimes I was so haunted by dreams and memories I felt I might go mad.”  
“As was I,” Nasir muttered into Agron’s shoulder, his fingers digging into Agron’s back. “I cannot tell the times I listened to men make coarse jokes at each other, wishing it to be in the tongue of the Gauls or the Germans. How I thought I would let you call me your little man a hundred times a day if it meant I would hear your voice again.”

Agron snorted out a little chuckle, but it was high-pitched, a little too high and maybe a little too loud, before he leaned back to look at Nasir’s face without letting go of his shoulders. 

“I would kneel at your feet for the rest of my life,” he said, his voice cracking, “if it only meant to be at your side.”  
“There is but one reason I would have you on your knees before me,” Nasir said without thinking, and his face burned the very same moment he realised what he had said. 

Yet their smiles died on their lips as their eyes met, and they crashed their lips together without thinking, pulling each other close, and closer, their kisses almost wild, fuelled by hunger and the ardent longing they had suffered for too long. Yet the fires of passion simmered down again as soon as they broke the kiss, and Nasir pressed his face against the side of Agron’s neck, while Agron buried his face into Nasir’s hair again. Hands were now roaming across each other’s bodies in tender touches, where moments before fingers had dug into skin hard enough to leave marks. 

Eventually however Nasir stepped out of Agron’s embrace and looked up at his face. 

“Will you sleep again in my bed tonight, little man?” Agron asked, a slightly crooked smile on his lips and a heartbreakingly tender look in his eye.  
Nasir closed his eyes for a second, and with wetness clinging to his lashes he took Agron’s hands in his. “Tonight, and every night that follows,” he replied in a low voice.

He then let go of Agron’s hands and turned away from the fire and Agron followed him to his bedchamber with a heavy sigh heaving his shoulders.

As Nasir closed the door behind them Agron stoked the fire, and once it was burning he sat down next to Nasir on the bed. For a moment the tense and awkward silence was back, but then Agron took one of Nasir’s hands in his and ran his thumb across the back of it a few times. They exchanged another smile, and Agron draped his other arm around Nasir’s shoulder to pull him close. 

As they kissed again the passion and hunger rekindled quickly, and as Agron cautiously slipped a hand under Nasir’s tunic, Nasir broke away with a gasp. 

“I need to feel you,” he almost growled and began impatiently tugging at the buckle of his belt.  
“Are you sure of this?” Agron asked. 

Nasir looked up and cradled Agron’s face between his hands. His eyes were wide, almost wild, and he took a few deep breaths. 

“Your touch has always been a bandage to the wounds caused by those who saw nothing but flesh when looking at me. You always saw a man, and always treated me as something precious. Your hands will not erase what has been done to me. But I want to feel you, I need to feel you…” He swallowed and his eyes glistened with tears. “I need to feel that you are not a mere dream, or a painful memory.”

Agron took a few breaths so deep his shoulders heaved, and closed his eye for another heartbeat. Then he rested his hands atop Nasir’s that were still cradling his face, and slowly pulled those hands away. He placed a kiss into each palm and let his hand wander up those arms, until they came to rest on Nasir’s shoulders. 

Their eyes met once again, and Agron slowly, and gently, pushed Nasir onto his back. 

From then on it was reverence, adoration, worship; Agron’s touches to Nasir’s skin a veneration of something invaluable, each kiss a prayer of gratitude to the gods that had brought them together again, each heavy breath ghosting across each other’s skin like a blessing. Facing each other, pressed as closely together as they could, they shared more kisses, while between their joined hands the pleasure built and sweet release followed, proof down to the very core of their souls that this was real, that the time of aching hollowness when waking from a dream was finally over. 

Their embrace seemed more like an attempt to melt together into one, to never be separated again, and they stayed like that, their bodies remembering with more ease than their minds. Curled into each other like this they had always slept best, only willing to lie without touching when the southern heat had made it unbearable. Now they were nestled against each other like two halves of a whole, basking in each other’s warmth under soft fur blankets, heartbeats calming and eyes growing heavy. 

 

They awoke in each other’s arms with sunrise, and shy smiles were replaced by soft kisses. Kisses led to more, unsurprisingly, but a morning meal was set out for them as they emerged much later than was proper, the sun already high in the sky. They shared their meal in silence, but the silence was no longer uncomfortable. 

“I do not know how to make my living now,” Nasir said hesitantly as they left the house together. “I have never known another craft but whore or warrior.”  
“Not true,” Agron said mildly and smiled down at him. “You were well equipped to help Spartacus organise the campaign in keeping track of men and resources. You were a good teacher to the young and inexperienced.”

Nasir shrugged, but managed a small smile as well.

“For now, rest and recover,” Agron said as they had reached the forge. “And everything else will fall into place. And everything shall be as it should be.”

Nasir watched Agron stoke the fire and stepped closer.

“Is it not already?”  
Agron turned around with a questioning hum.  
“Is not everything finally as it should be?” Nasir asked again. 

After a moment of looking at Nasir in confusion Agron stepped close and pulled Nasir into his arms, burying his face into the black silky hair to hide the wetness in his eye. 

“It is,” he muttered into Nasir’s hair. “Everything is as it should be.”


End file.
